


Lie to Me

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Alternate Season 14, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Castiel driving Baby, Castiel in the shower, Chuck Ex Machina, Chuck is God, Dean and Castiel are in love, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Human Castiel, Human Castiel in the Bunker, Human Michael (Supernatural), I promise, IDK what these tags even are sorry, Just some inspiration and a bit of dialogue, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, M/M, Mary/Bobby/Jack are all offscreen, Michael!Dean, No prior knowledge of Angel needed, Not a Crossover, POV Castiel, Possessed Dean, Sad Sam Winchester, Sam and Cas being bros, Self-Esteem Issues, Temporary Character Death, The following tags include spoilers, Top Castiel, borrowed elements from another series- Angel, canon compliant up to season 13 episode 23, casturbation, coda to "let the good times roll", fair warning, like i don't even want to tag it, michael gets better, michael is manipulative, mostly - Freeform, no permanent MCD, no really lol, nothing really happens, problems in heaven, some very minor dubcon in one chapter, ultimately this is a fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 00:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15960722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Castiel and Sam's plan to expel Michael from Dean's body backfires in a big way, leaving them with an unexpectedly human archangel and the horrifying possibility that Dean's soul is gone forever. Can they bring Dean home from wherever he's gone? What will become of a human Michael trapped in Dean's body? How will Castiel survive losing the love of his life, just when things were starting to fall together?





	1. Numb

**Author's Note:**

> Major, endless thanks to @naruhearts and @thetwistedwillow who cheerleaded this story into existence. I truly don't think I would have been able to keep up the momentum to crank this out without them. 
> 
> This story was inspired by the Illyria storyline, specifically Wesley's death scene, in Joss Whedon's "Angel the series". Here is a link to that scene, if you're interested:  
> https://youtu.be/UuP3KXHMhA0
> 
> This is NOT, however, a crossover. No Angel characters appear in this fic, and no prior knowledge of the show/characters is needed to read it. This is a reimagining/subversion of that storyline that fits in the canon supernatural universe. However, if you are an Angel fan, you may recognize some dialogue snippets and these belong to Joss Whedon/Angel, not me. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, please leave a comment if you liked it, especially if you want to chat about the Illyria/Michael similarities because honestly, I know I'm biased, but I kinda think this is genius. Hit me up and let's chat.
> 
> I'm @castielslostwings on tumblr  
> I’m @caslostwings on twitter :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  

Seven weeks. Four days. Sixteen hours. Forty-seven minutes. Fifty-three seconds.  
  
This is the length of time that has elapsed between when Castiel felt Michael break his promise—felt Dean’s longing become distant and then disappear, like a hand slipping under the surface of the water, Cas felt their profound bond stretch thin and snap—and now.

  
Castiel is numb.  
  
He has to be. Memories of the last time he saw Dean, when that beautiful green flashed electric blue, and Michael’s true face appeared behind Dean’s human one play on repeat in Castiel’s head. This is not new. It’s what Castiel has seen every moment of every day since then. While hunting things with Sam. While helping Jack acclimate to being human. While researching with Mary and Bobby on how to help Dean, how to bring him back, and what they might have to do if they cannot. While resting eyes that don’t really need sleep, in the chair next to Dean’s bed, as the rest of the bunker sleeps around him.  
  
Castiel thinks that Dean would be annoyed if he knew what Cas has gotten up to in his absence. Late at night, he listens to Dean’s music on Dean’s headphones. He runs his hands over Dean’s flannels folded in his drawers and hanging in his closet. He sits in Dean’s chair and reads Dean’s books; “Slaughterhouse Five,” and “On the Road,” old and worn with soft, creased pages and the memory of Dean’s hands all over them.

 

Sometimes, when he knows there is no chance of Sam popping in to check up on him, he holds Dean’s pillow, an expensive memory foam one that matches the mattress, close to his chest and drops his face into its soft cover. He knows that he is shirking his angelic responsibilities, that he should be in Heaven assisting the remaining angels with the issue of Heaven’s failing power supply while Sam, Jack, and the others are sleeping, but he can’t bring himself to leave the bunker. He’ll leave for hunts, as Sam needs him, but beyond that, he can’t bring himself to do so, knowing that when he returns it won’t be to the one thing that makes the bunker feel like home. If he stays put, if he surrounds himself with Dean’s things, it’s easier to pretend. It’s easier to stay numb. It’s easier to not acknowledge that maybe if he had chosen to stay like this sooner, Dean might not have said, “Yes.”  
  
So he indulges, allows himself these weaknesses in the hopes that they might drown out the memories of green turning to angelic blue behind his eyelids for a measly few seconds. He allows himself these secret moments so that he can continue to appear strong for Sam and Jack and Mary. Weakness. He is truly weak, he knows that now. But he does not cry, and he does not break. He reminds himself that angels are not meant to feel a thing.  
  
Sometimes Castiel feels angry at Dean. If it weren’t for Dean, he knows that he would in fact, still be unable to feel a thing.  
  
It’s not Dean that he’s really angry at. He knows this.  
  
Tonight, Castiel is not in Dean’s room. Tonight, he is atop the rundown building that towers over the bunker’s entrance. It’s pitch black and the weather is unpleasant, this summer never quite having warmed up the way summers are known to do. It suits Castiel’s mood, and he remains unaffected by the wind’s increasingly biting chill. Castiel spares a moment for that thought. Angels don’t feel discomfort, his mind supplies.

  
“Angels aren’t meant to feel anything at all,” he mutters out loud, and a half-hysterical laugh escapes his lips, the sound vanishing into the night air and returning Castiel to his stoicism as quickly as it came. Soon, he will no longer have that excuse for his numbness. Or, when it’s gone, perhaps he will no longer be numb? Castiel thinks he should feel more concerned about the possibility that he will soon lack the coldness necessary to tamper down and hold back his emotions as he’s been doing, but he decides not to dwell. It’s far more likely he’ll be dead by sunrise, anyway.  
  
“Cas, where’d you go man? We’re ready down here.” Sam’s voice appears in Castiel’s head, a reminder that his time runs short. Castiel takes out his phone and shoots off a quick text message, letting Sam know he’ll be down momentarily. He wonders if Sam will forgive him for what he’s about to do. If it means Dean is returned, whole and relatively unharmed, he thinks he will. With what feels to him like an incredibly final glance at the night sky and the Heavens above, Castiel turns away from the edge of the building and begins his descent down into the bunker.  
  
******  
  
Once downstairs, Castiel sets to chopping and arranging the last of his spell ingredients when it occurs to him to wonder if he should feel some particular way about the fact that Sam hasn’t made any mention of a “Plan B.” Of any Plan B, but specifically of Castiel’s theoretically secret one, as it were. Sam Winchester is a smart man. A man who has been tirelessly researching day and night for months looking for a way to bring his brother back safely. What are the odds that he doesn’t know about this? Castiel decides that despite his ongoing efforts to sneak certain lore books out of the library, those odds are probably slim to none. He suspects that Sam is walking that fine line between desperation and being the kind of man who would never ask for such a thing. Castiel feels determined to ensure that Sam will never have to. He watches the younger Winchester finish up the sigils that he’s painting on the floor and pour a careful circle of holy oil around them. His previous question is answered when Castiel goes to stash a spare bowl of ingredients off to the side, where they can’t be accidentally grabbed and catches Sam surreptitiously stealing glances at both him and the bowl. Ah, so he does know.  
  
Sam rises off of the floor, after correcting a smudged sigil and clears his throat. “I think I’ve closed all the loopholes that allowed the warding to fail with Lucifer,” he says hesitantly.  
  
It’s an olive branch, and Castiel takes pity on him. This subject has always been something they’ve danced around, and discussing it directly is awkward. “The archangel warding you discovered should work, Sam. The sigils are strong. I can feel them from here. I should not like to be the one stuck inside that circle.” Their eyes meet over the warding. “This is going to work, Sam.”  
  
Sam opened his mouth to reply but seems to hesitate, his eyes flicking again to the “extra” bowl of ingredients, and for a moment Castiel worries. But the moment passes and Sam nods. “Ok. Let’s find out. We should do it now before Mom and Bobby get back from their hunt.”  
  
Castiel nods. “This is the right decision, Sam. Dean wouldn’t want to risk them. He wouldn’t want to risk you, either, but I suppose there’s no use in rehashing that... again.”  
  
Sam gives him a sideways look and a half smile. “You know, you’re really giving me some mixed signals here, Cas. Is my warding solid or are we in danger?”  
  
Castiel shrugs but appreciates Sam’s weak attempt at lightening the mood. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” he replies, and Sam snorts.  
  
The actual summoning ritual is simple and familiar. Just a short incantation, a flash of holy fire, and then Dean Winchester is finally home. The room is silent except for the crackling of holy fire, and Castiel watches as Dean’s body turns to face the waiting duo.  
  
“Showtime,” Castiel thinks, and in the back of his mind he muses that Dean would probably appreciate his rescue commencing with Castiel making a pop culture reference.  
  
Inside the circle of holy fire, Michael smiles with the Righteous Man’s face, and Castiel’s only regret is that this is the last way he will ever see it.


	2. When the Levee Breaks

The unnatural grin stays plastered on Michael’s face, twisting Dean’s beautiful features into something that feels ironically unholy. Michael doesn’t spare even a glance at the flames flickering around him, and he doesn’t try to break the warding. He doesn’t look weakened either, though.  
  
“The mice, cornering the cat-“ Michael starts and is cut off abruptly by Sam beginning to chant in Enochian. Sam is determined. His face is set, he’s throwing herbs from his bowl across the holy fire like he’s done this ritual a thousand times (and knowing Sam, he has in his head), and his pronunciation is perfect. The air is thick with the scent of mystical herbs and the kind of smoke one would expect at a backyard barbecue, not the exorcism of an angel from another dimension, all equating to a very surreal atmosphere. In another time and place, Castiel thinks he might find the smell comforting.   
  
Michael listens to the incantation for a moment and then the grin on his face widens, “You,” he laughs. “You think your actions will restore him. It won’t work.” He sniffs. “Humans. How have you all not died out by now? That spell is useless if the vessel’s original occupant is gone.”   
  
Michael’s words stop Sam dead in his tracks. He looks to Castiel who raises a placating hand. “He’s lying,” Castiel responds, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head in scrutiny. Michael raises his eyebrows. “Finish it, Sam,” Castiel commands.   
  
Sam does. With a final few words and the last ingredients from his bowl, Sam completes the ritual with a flourish. As he does, the lights in the war room burst into a shower of sparks, while the holy fire flashes tall and blue and goes out. Unbothered by the theatrics, Castiel is quick to notice that it’s not just the war room- the entire bunker has gone dark. When the red backup lights come on, Michael -Dean’s body?- is lying still in the center of the warding circle. “Dean!” Sam calls out and rushes to his brother’s side. Sam rolls him over onto his back and Castiel is again able to see the vessel’s face.   
  
“Sam! Get back-“ Castiel’s warning comes too late. Michael’s eyes fly open and he flings Sam across the room like a rag doll. Sam hits the wall of the bunker with a sickening thud, falls to the floor and doesn’t get back up. Castiel moves and prays he can make it. Time for Plan B.   
  
Michael stands to Dean’s full height and stretches, unnecessary and a mockery of human response. “Oh Castiel,” he says, advancing towards him slowly and deliberately, stepping emphatically across the charred line where the holy fire used to be. “You never learn, do you? Should have just listened to me. Should have fallen in line. Now the question is, do I take you back to Heaven and force you? I am the one who broke my world’s Castiel after all, and I’m sure with this face on, I could do it again in no time. You could be useful to me, Castiel. I could forgive this indiscretion.” He flashes an approximation of Dean’s smile and continues, his tone calm and Castiel thinks there might even be a hint of Dean’s particular drawl. It’s clear that Michael doesn’t view him as a threat; he’s acting as if he has all the time in the world. Perhaps he does. “I took his wings myself. I wonder if your screams will sound the same when I rip off yours for good.”   
  
Castiel doesn’t flinch away, “You’re an abomination.”   
  
Michael’s grin stays frozen. “A true ruler is as moral as a hurricane. Empty, but for the force of his gale.”   
  
Up to this point, Castiel has moved slowly, cautiously, like he’s just backing up, the way one might act if confronted by an angry bear in the woods. But now he’s reached his target, the bowl of ingredients he set aside earlier and he slips his angel blade down into his hand, while simultaneously grabbing for the bowl.   
  
Michael sees his blade and laughs. “You won’t last two minutes battling me, Castiel. You cling to what is gone. There is nothing here for you in this human world but grief. Stop making things worse for yourself and come with me now.”   
  
Castiel doesn’t reply, just whips a small vial out of his pocket and in one smooth movement he’s slashed his own throat and is catching the grace flowing from his neck neatly in the vial. He then picks up the bowl and tips the grace in, a purple burst of light exploding upwards as he does. He advances on Michael who is now looking confused and slightly annoyed, until he hears Castiel’s chanting in Enochian and his eyes widen.   
  
“No! Castiel no, there’s no telling what will happen, you mustn’t use that spell like this, NO!” Michael pleads and backs up, but the spell is already reaching out from the bowl with its tentacles, wrapping around Michael like a vise.

Castiel yells the last few words over Michael’s protests, and the spell reacts- first tightening like a cocoon and then exploding outward from around Michael in a bright, white light reminiscent of a nuclear explosion. It fills the bunker and knocks Castiel flat on his back. It’s accompanied by an impossibly loud ringing noise that hurts Castiel‘s ears. The world dims and starts to grey at the edges and his ears feel wet like something is leaking from them. As Castiel feels himself sliding into the darkness the ringing fades away, but not before Castiel realizes that it’s his own true voice, impossible as that might be, somehow speaking and yet unrecognizable to his own now-human ears. He tries to catch sight of Michael but he can’t sit up, can’t see, can’t do anything he attempts. He thinks he might hear someone screaming but that could be his own. Castiel’s last conscious thought is a ragged, anxious prayer to a God that isn’t listening, that Dean Winchester might be saved one last time. Castiel’s eyes slide closed, and the bunker is still.  


 


	3. Human

Castiel swims back to consciousness slowly and with the confusing and persistent feeling that he shouldn’t be able to. His eyes flutter. He can feel his body and appears to be very much alive. _That’s unexpected,_ he thinks, but can’t immediately remember why. When he finally blinks his eyes open, a harsh painful light shining in his eyes forces them closed again immediately. The ceiling had looked different though- that wasn’t the last ceiling he saw... where was he when he... fell asleep? No, that isn’t right... he doesn’t sleep... he was fighting. In the war room! Of the bunker. He and Sam, trying to eject Michael from Dean’s body. The whole event comes flooding back and leaves Castiel feeling a little nauseous. Michael, the spell, Sam- what had happened?! How was Dean?   
  
  
Spurred by memories and the realization that he’s no longer in the war room, Castiel makes a respectable attempt to bolt upright. However, when he does, pain shoots up the back of his head and neck and he groans, falling backward onto the bed again and draping his arm over his eyes. Everything hurts.  
  
  
“Whoa, whoa, hey Cas, take it easy, you took a pretty major hit.” Sam’s voice comes from somewhere to Castiel’s right, and he hears a chair scrape closer.  
  
  
“Sam,” Castiel croaks out. In addition to his head, his throat feels dry and scratchy, his stomach painfully empty as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks, and he needs to pee. Human. He’s human. He’d forgotten how terrible it could feel. How fragile the human body really is. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sam... so glad... you’re... ok.” He coughs and keeps his eyes closed for the light, but Sam’s hand is warm and solid and _alive_  on his shoulder. A sudden wave of combined relief, sadness, and anxiety rolls over him, and Castiel can’t stop the couple of tears that leak out from the sides of his closed eyelids. He hasn’t really missed this part, either. Sometimes being human is just so _much_. He coughs again. “Is there water?”   
  
  
“Yea, hang on-“ Sam moves away and Castiel can hear the scrape of a chair, the soft snick of a desk lamp turning on, pills being shaken out of a bottle. Sam is back quickly, sliding his arm under Castiel’s shoulders and encouraging them up. “Sit up for me, Cas, and we’ll get some water and pain medication in you. I turned the overhead light off, you can open your eyes whenever you’re ready.”  
  
  
Castiel lets Sam help him to a sitting position before he leans back against a pillow. A very familiar pillow... Castiel reaches up to squeeze it. Memory foam. He opens his eyes and this time it’s not so bad, the room bathed in the soft light of a desk lamp instead of the bright overhead. They’re in Dean’s room, and he’s tucked in Dean’s bed. Sam looks like he’s been sitting vigil, spread out at Dean’s desk with lore books, files, and multiple empty coffee mugs. Did Dean put him here? He opens his mouth to ask and sets off another coughing fit. Sam holds a glass of water up to his lips and he drinks. The first sip feels heavenly and painful at the same time.  
  
  
“It gets better,” Sam assures him. “Keep sipping, and take these.” He presses two capsules into Castiel’s hand, and Castiel obliges with only minor difficulty. His throat feels better already. Sam must notice him looking around curiously and his cheeks turn pink. “You were still out when I came to, Dean’s room was the closest...” he trails off. “And, I know you‘ve been spending time here lately. I thought... well, you weren’t waking up, and I thought being somewhere you felt comfortable wouldn’t hurt. Um... so, you’re human?”  
  
  
Castiel ignores the comments about him being comfortable in Dean’s space because Sam is clearly not sharing the whole story.  His headache is starting to fade and he’s getting impatient. “Human... yes, but it doesn’t matter about me. Sam, what happened? Where’s Dean?”  
  
  
Sam sighs and pushes his chair back, swiveling towards his workspace and resting his head in his hands, elbows on the desk. “About that...” he starts and then pauses.   
  
  
Castiel’s eyes widen, “Sam, Dean isn’t- I mean, I didn’t- he’s not-?”  
  
  
Sam’s head snaps up. “No! Well, I don’t think so. Cas, I don’t know. I’ve been researching and I have some calls out, but there’s no precedent... no one seems to know.” Castiel waits, squinting in confusion, and Sam takes a deep breath. “Ok so, when I came to, you guys were both down for the count. I didn’t know whether it was Michael or Dean, so I put him in some Enochian cuffs and got him down to the basement. I figured you’d wake up first and then you didn’t... and then he did...” Sam scrubs a nervous hand through his hair. “Alright, here it is. Cas, no one knows if a human soul can co-exist in a vessel with a grace-less angel.” He turns and looks at Castiel. “Your “secret” spell did what it was supposed to. It burned Michael’s grace out. But it didn’t burn out Michael. He’s human.”  
  
  
Castiel’s vision blurs and Sam’s voice suddenly sounds like it’s underwater. Castiel can vaguely hear him asking if Cas knows anything, can do anything. Castiel has no answers to give. Jimmy was long gone the first time he went mortal, and he doesn’t know any angels who have survived losing their grace in co-occupied vessels. Castiel remembers Michael taunting them during the first spell- he had said that Dean was gone then. What if he really was? Could that have caused the spell to misfire and make Michael human? Or was Michael just being cruel? It was certainly within an archangel’s ability to burn out its host. Castiel swings his legs over the side of the bed and heavily leans on the side table to push himself up to standing. He’s made Dean’s situation so much worse, and he’s got to fix it, no matter the cost.   
  
  
“Cas?” Sam stands as well. He looks tired and sad, but not defeated.   
  
  
“We need to talk to Michael.”


	4. The Boy In Question

The walk down to the dungeon seems long. Castiel has been walking through the bunker for years as an angel, with his wings long gone it wasn't exactly a choice, but this feels different. His body seems heavier, the movement of his limbs takes effort, and he wishes for a soft bed, more water, and Dean’s warm body to curl up against. That last thought comes across his mind easily, as if it were something he has thought or longed for a thousand times. To his knowledge, he hasn’t allowed himself a thought like that in years - not since the last time he was human. Castiel had been prepared for an onslaught of human emotions, but the ease of how this one snuck right in and made itself at home still surprises him. He stops walking and puts one hand across his eyes, bracing the other against the hallway wall, as more unwanted emotions wash over him. Dean, Dean, Dean. Of course, it’s all Dean. He blinks tears from his eyes behind his hand. No, he did not miss this at all. Loving Dean was so much easier as an angel. It was pure, it was obvious, and it was easy to keep tamped down behind a barrier wall, thanks to his grace. Now there is no barrier, no way to make one, and Castiel feels. He swallows hard and takes a few deep breaths, squeezing at the corners of his eyes with his hand and using the pretense of pain to explain the moment.

 

“Cas?” Sam’s hand finds his shoulder again. “We don’t have to do this right now, man.” Sam shuffles his feet a little, and Castiel appreciates the out but doesn't take it. Dean wouldn’t have. He takes another deep breath and steadies himself on his feet, starting back down the hall and towards the door that leads down to the dungeon. Sam’s hand falls off of his shoulder as he goes, but Castiel hears Sam’s footsteps follow closely, his friend obviously trying to stay on the right side of the line between supportive presence and hovering.

 

“We need to know for sure, Sam. Dean could be trapped in his own head, and without Michael’s grace to separate them…” he trails off, shakes his head. “I don’t even want to speculate. I’m not even sure how they could remain two separate entities, trapped in one human body this way. If he is still in there, time will be of the essence.”

 

They’re at the bottom of the stairs now, and moving down the hallway. Castiel’s body feels even heavier, and he’s certain this time that it’s not an effect of adjusting to being human… he’s pretty sure this is dread. He pushes it down and as expected, it’s not easy, the feeling persists, but so does Castiel. By the time he and Sam reach the dungeon door, Castiel is feeling a bit lighter.

 

Until Sam opens the door. The iron shelves that can be closed to lock in the dungeon’s one “cell” are open, affording Castiel a perfect view of Dean’s body sitting chained to the wall. He’s on the floor with his legs out and there are irons with Enochian warding on each wrist, held up at about shoulder level.  Dean’s head is slumped forward, chin pressed to his chest. He doesn’t move or look up when they enter. Castiel suppresses the urge to run to him, to pull him to his own chest, to never let go.

 

“Michael?” Sam starts, cautiously but without any hint of fear. The body on the floor doesn’t stir. They move closer and Sam reaches out, grabbing Dean’s shoulder and shaking gently. “Michael.” Still no movement.

 

Castiel unsticks his feet from the floor and moves forward as well, crouching down to eye level. He hesitates and then, “...Dean?” It’s soft, and with more pleading in it than Castiel would have liked, but just then, Dean’s head moves. It lifts and makes eye contact with Castiel, whose blood runs cold. A sneer stretches across Dean’s face, but this is definitely not Dean. “Michael,” Castiel whispers. “How?”

 

“I told you,” Michael grinds out, his face hard and his voice full of barely controlled rage, “I told you to stop. That you couldn’t possibly predict the outcome of that spell…” His eyes burn through Castiel’s, and he pulls on his irons in a way that can’t be comfortable. “You did this to me,” he pulls harder and makes a scrambled attempt to stand, impossible thanks to his positioning and restraints. His feet slip out and he falls backward, striking his head against the wall. He doesn’t even seem to notice, though a dark stain is visible behind his head. Dean’s blood. Castiel forces his eyes away from it and back to Michael’s face. “You did this, you did this!” he repeats angrily, and his glare is as sharp as it ever was.  

 

Castiel ignores the ranting. “And you’re sure he’s human, Sam?” Sam nods, and indicates first to an angel blade sitting on a table at the edge of the room, next to a small cut on Dean’s neck, and then to a half-empty bottle of water on the floor. Castiel understands. No grace, no healing powers, human needs. It appears Sam was correct in his assessment. Next order of business. “Where is Dean, Michael? Is he in there with you? We can’t help you… we won’t help you if you don’t help us protect Dean.” He gets no reply and so tries again, “Tell us what you did with Dean, Michael!”

 

At this, Michael throws his head back, knocking it against the dark stain on the wall again, and laughs a bitter, empty sound. “My name. You would presume to speak my name? Because I am returned in the body of a human, you think you can speak to me. It's disgusting.”

 

Castiel and Sam exchange glances. “Sam,” Castiel starts, “You should go upstairs.”

 

Sam protests, because of course he does. “Cas, what are you going to do? You can’t torture him, what if Dean is in there?”

 

“Exactly, Sam, what if Dean IS in there? Precious minutes are ticking by while we waste time trying to reason with this creature. He may be human, but he has no humanity. Time-sensitive, Sam. Remember? Do _you_ have the stomach for what needs to be done?”

 

Sam hangs his head. “You shouldn’t have to. Cas, you… I know what he means-”

 

Castiel cuts him off harshly, “Sam. We don’t have time for this. I have both done and been through worse.” It’s a lie. More softly then, “I’m doing this _for_  Dean. We have to know. Now go. I’ll come to you when it’s done.”  

 

Reluctantly, Sam nods, and retreats from the warded area, turning when he reaches the shelving. “Go easy, Cas… remember, you can’t heal him anymore.” Sam takes a last look at them and then leaves, closing the heavy outer door behind him. Castiel looks down at his hands. Remember? As if he could forget.

 

When he turns back around, Michael is no longer glaring him down. His gaze is off to the left, and almost thoughtful. “Castiel,” he says, “Your affection for humanity is exasperating. You must see by now that you are alone in this receptivity amongst your brethren.” He looks back at Castiel and takes an awkward stab at a shrug, a conspicuous attempt to appear human that falls impossibly short. “Perhaps if you hadn't killed everyone who might have agreed with you.”

 

Castiel doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he grabs the angel blade from the table and advances, squatting down to Michael’s level and bringing the tip of the blade to his throat. “No more games. Tell me about Dean, or I will help you discover how exasperatingly human you are now.”

  
Tilting his head and looking more curious than concerned, Michael leans back and regards Castiel. “And this shell? You had affection for it. For… Dean.” He pauses. “You could cause damage to it? You would hurt him, to get something from me?”

 

Castiel maintains eye contact, but swallows. “You’re not him. If he’s still trapped in there, he would want... “ Castiel can’t quite finish that thought, so he doesn’t try. “And if he isn’t in there, that makes you the thing that killed him. And I have no problem hurting you. Now, where is Dean Winchester?”

 

Michael’s expression hardens again and he growls, “When the world met me, it shuddered. Groaned. Knelt at my feet.”

 

Castiel stands to his full height. “And now you kneel at mine.” He draws the hand with the blade in it back and swipes it quickly across Michael’s chest, slicing cleanly through his shirt and skin, blood welling up in its wake, bright red and angry. He follows immediately with a punch to the left side of Michael’s face. Michael’s body jerks and he groans. “Where is _Dean?”_   Castiel demands again through gritted teeth.

 

Michael turns his head and spits, there’s blood in it. He lifts his eyes back up. “You seek to save what’s rotted through. This carcass is bound to me. I could not change that if I cared to, and neither can you.”

 

“I don’t believe you!” Castiel is angry now, clenching his fists in defense against the unfamiliar human emotions swelling inside his head and squeezing his heart and making him want to punch, to kill, to rage on whatever this THING is that stole Dean, because this isn’t Dean. Not his Dean. This… what was the word Michael used? This shell. This shell that talks and walks and looks like his Dean but is not. Castiel can barely hold back his desire to destroy, to rip it to shreds.  This false idol, this mockery of the soul he would have and did follow to hell and back... He takes a deep breath. “How… how do I retrieve his soul? Where did it go?”

 

“Gone. Consumed by my grace when I took control of his body as my true vessel. And lost forever in the fires of resurrection which _you_ rained down on me with that misguided spell. If your human pet’s soul had been intact when you performed it, my grace would have been destroyed. I assume that’s what you intended.” Michael grins, and Dean’s face has never looked more twisted. “You failed, brother. Your sacrifice was for naught.”

 

Something in Castiel snaps and he drops the blade, surging forward to grab Michael by the neck and lift him up off of the floor. “You’re lying!” He bares his teeth at the former archangel, lifting him high enough that his arms are pulled harshly downwards, wrists straining at the irons, feet scrabbling at an awkward angle for purchase on the floor. “You’re lying,” he repeats, a touch more calmly, relaxing his grip enough for Michael to slip back down to the ground. Castiel kneels over him, one knee on each side of his legs and keeps his hand on his neck.

 

Michael shakes his head, as much as he can in Castiel’s grip.  He narrows his eyes. “You grieve still… for a single life.” Castiel’s grip starts to tighten again and Michael quickly continues, “It’s foreign to me. I’ve killed many and grieved none. And yet…” He trails off and his eyes seem to glaze over a bit. “There are remnants...” He closes his eyes and rolls his neck.

 

When he opens them again, Michael looks a bit softer, a touch less alien, like something has shifted and, “Heya, Cas,” comes out of his mouth, in Dean’s voice, Dean’s tone. Castiel reflexively releases his grip and scrambles backward.  Dean’s face is now looking up at him through his lashes. “Cas…” He says softly, “I prayed to you, every night… I need you, buddy. You’re family, Cas.” Dean looks like _Dean_ and the breath goes out of Castiel’s lungs, the world tilting under his feet. He thinks for a moment that there is no way he is not going to pass out cold, but he manages to reign it back in by dropping to a crouch and closing his eyes. “What’s wrong, sunshine?” he hears, and his eyes snap back open. This time when he looks, it’s not as difficult to see the wrongness of it all. The slight hint of a smirk playing at the edges of Dean’s lips, right where it shouldn’t be, the emptiness behind his eyes. “Isn’t this what you want, Cas?” Dean’s body is stretching almost seductively now, in a way that would be confusing and a bit scary to Castiel without the possessing alien entity and the wrist shackles.

 

“No,” Castiel says.

 

“C’mon Cas, you want me, I want you, what’s the big deal?” It’s everything Castiel has always wanted to hear, and it’s all wrong, it’s so wrong, it’s all a lie and Dean’s green eyes are so empty. He backs away.

 

“Stop it.”

 

“You love me, Cas. I’ve always known, you know.”

 

“I loved _him,_ ” Castiel whispers, and then shakes himself out of the trance, suddenly able to be furious again. He sweeps forward and has the angel blade at Michael’s neck. “Stop this game or I’ll slit your throat.”

 

Michael grins back, hard and cold, then bares his neck. “Do it.”

 

Castiel wavers there for a moment, eventually forcing himself to draw back, not missing the flash of panic in Michael’s eyes. He narrows his own and backs up towards the door. “You… you wanted this. You want me to kill you. You were goading me.”

 

“What does it matter Castiel? The human is gone. You won’t be able to stand to look at this empty husk knowing I’m inside of it. End this torture, do it for yourself if not for me.”

 

Castiel shakes his head and continues his retreat to the door.

 

“Castiel! You cannot leave me like this,” Michael cries, and he’s angry now, pulling at his chains again. “I order you to kill me. Kill me. KILL ME!”

 

After opening the door that leads out of the dungeon, Castiel pauses. “Your world is gone, everything you’ve known and chosen to live for. And now you know how I feel.”  He exits and closes the door, leaving Michael roaring in fury inside.


	5. The Sandbox

Castiel makes his way back upstairs and Sam is nowhere to be found. In the library there are some books on the table, but a lot more on the floor (plus one coffee mug), and part of the table is completely clear as if someone has swept an arm straight across it. The faint sound of Led Zeppelin is drifting down the hallway, so Castiel makes his way towards it. He’s not exactly surprised when the short trail ends at Sam’s room. He IS surprised, however, at the state of Sam.  The man is sprawled on his bed, with his head against the wall, eyes closed, and a more-empty-than-not bottle of Macallan partly in hand but mostly braced on the side of his leg. His iHome is playing “Thank You,” and all of this is just a little too on the nose for Castiel’s liking. He knocks loudly and Sam starts, eyes popping open and meeting Castiel’s, slightly glassy but clear enough to look guilty. “Sam,” Castiel starts, eyebrows raised.

 

“Don’t.” Sam cuts him off while pushing to more of a sitting position. He has the wherewithal enough to put the bottle aside on his bedside table. 

 

Castiel moves slowly into the room and perches on the foot end of Sam’s bed. It feels strangely nice to sit down, despite the circumstances. He keeps forgetting how tiring just existing as a human being can be, and (as if his day has been uneventful and this is just a simple oversight) makes a mental note to sit down more often. “The subtleties of human behavior are often lost on me, even now,” Castiel says. “I can’t claim to be an expert, even with all of the popular culture Metatron stuffed into my head, but” he pauses, “I believe this is what would be described by American teenagers as ‘emo’.” He looks up at Sam for confirmation.

 

Sam stares for a moment and then bursts out laughing. Castiel smiles, glad to discover that Sam is not so far gone. “Sam, what is this?” He asks, and the smile slides off of Sam’s face.

 

He takes a deep breath. “This is exhausting, Cas.” He looks up and meets Castiel’s gaze. “It never, ever stops, does it? I mean, you would know. Look at everything you’ve had to give. For Dean, for us, for the world.” He blows out an exasperated sigh, and Castiel can see tears welling in the corners of his eyes as Sam looks up at the ceiling. “This was supposed to be the end. Jack was going to change the world, really make a difference, and we were going to be done. Did you know Dean wanted us to retire together? He was talking about going on  _ vacation _ to the  _ beach _ , right before we found out Lucifer was back. Dean! The beach!” Sam huffs out a small, sad laugh. “Can you believe that?” Castiel stays silent, letting Sam vent. “He wanted you there, too, you know. I thought maybe… I thought once this whole thing was over he might actually get his head out of his ass and talk to you. But it’s never going to be over, is it? And now he might really be gone. The permanent kind of gone. Cas, is it true? What Michael said?”

 

It’s Castiel’s turn to sigh. “I don’t know yet, Sam. That’s what I came to tell you. I need to go to the Heaven portal for some reconnaissance.”

 

Sam stares. “Um… not to rub it in, but how are you going to do that? Humans can’t pass through the portal and you’re…” Sam gestures up and down Cas’ body, and Cas gives him a reproachful look. “And anyway, isn’t the portal closed?”

 

“I’m well aware of how the portal works, Sam. And yes, it’s closed, but there should still be a guard. Indra should be able to use Angel Radio to get some answers. I intended to ask if you wished to accompany me, but with Michael in the basement and your current state, I think it would be best if you’d remain here and ‘hold down the fort’, so to speak.” Castiel replies using actual air quotes, and a fond smile returns to Sam’s face for a moment. “No more whiskey,” Cas adds as an afterthought, eyeing up the bottle. 

 

“I can do that,” Sam agrees. “Take Baby. She’ll keep you company.”

 

****

 

The drive is long, and despite Sam’s claims, Castiel still feels anxious and lonely, even with Baby’s company. It’s hard to be surrounded by all things Dean- from the feel of the leather seats and steering wheel to the sound of Dean’s favorite classic rock songs, and even his lingering scent. Has Dean’s scent been Baby’s all along? Castiel wonders, as the scenery passes. It’s hard to say now. Michael doesn’t smell the same. What a strange thing to think about, he thinks. What a strange thing to miss. 

 

It’s evening when Castiel pulls into the playground parking lot. Taking a bag of items he had stopped along the way for, he approaches and calls out, “Indra?” Indra’s head pops up above the slide. It disappears and there’s a soft fumbling noise, Indra’s body tumbling out of the bottom of the slide shortly after. He pulls himself to standing and stumbles towards Castiel. His eyes widen when he reaches him.

 

“So it’s true,” he says, looking Castiel up and down.

 

Castiel narrows his eyes and tilts his head. “What is true, Indra?” 

 

“You’re human.”

 

“And you’re drunk,” Castiel replies. “Speaking of which, are we done stating the obvious? I have urgent business. I can pay you, in exchange for some information,” He offers up the bag, which contains more than a few bottles of hard liquor.  Indra doesn’t take the bag and instead pulls away from him and closes his eyes, fingers to his temple.

 

“Of course, Castiel. I’ll just…” He concentrates for a moment and then opens his eyes again. “Naomi is coming.”

 

“Coming? How is that possible?”

 

Indra narrows his eyes and looks at him with distrust for the first time. “What do you mean, Castiel? This was your doing, wasn’t it?” Before Castiel can answer, the portal swirls and Naomi steps out.

 

“The portal is open,” Castiel says in greeting. “I thought you were keeping it closed until the power situation is resolved?” 

 

Naomi and Indra exchange a glance. Indra steps forward and grabs the bag of liquor from Castiel’s hand. “You know what,” he says. “I don’t even want to know. You’re a real piece of work, Castiel,” he says and retreats back to the slide, disappearing up it.

 

Naomi watches him go disapprovingly and then turns her attention back to Castiel, who is becoming increasingly confused.

 

“Naomi, what is going on?” he asks and meets her intense stare dead-on, unintimidated.

 

“Heaven’s power situation has stabilized, Castiel. We know about the spell you cast. I had thought what you did was intentional, though it appears yet again you’ve made a huge decision, with rippling implications, using your heart instead of your head, and without full awareness of what you could be doing. I have no idea why I’m surprised. Perhaps I was too hopeful in thinking you had finally put Heaven and your duties first. Let me guess… this had something to do with Dean.”  

 

Castiel involuntarily cocks his head, “Naomi, I am sorry but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I came here to find out if Dean’s soul is in Heaven. The spell I cast… its only effects were to make myself and the archangel Michael from the alternate universe mortal. And he is mortal… but still in Dean Winchester’s body. And he says…” Castiel takes a breath. “He says that Dean’s soul is gone. I need to know if he’s lying.”

 

Naomi smiles at him, and it’s a little sad, and a little condescending. “Oh, Castiel. You will never change, will you? I will answer your question, because intentional or not, it was you who saved Heaven.” She pauses to let that sink in, and Castiel has no idea what’s coming next. “Castiel, that spellbound both yours and Michael’s grace to Heaven. While you both are mortal, your grace lives on up here. Heaven can’t be destabilized again, thanks to you.”  

 

Castiel’s eyes widen. “Naomi… I had no idea. I didn’t even know that was possible…?”

 

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have,” she replies, almost wistful. “As for what you came here for, Dean Winchester’s soul is not here.” She sees the look on his face and continues. “And it would be here if it were anywhere. It’s no secret that I’ve never been a fan of the Winchesters, but Dean’s soul was Righteous, and destined for Heaven.”

 

Castiel nods slowly. “So… if Michael says that he burned out Dean’s soul…”

 

“Then Dean’s soul is gone.”

  
Castiel doesn’t remember the drive back to the bunker. He does remember taking the bag of liquor back from Indra before he goes. He does remember Naomi watching him walk away, as the portal swirled and whisked her back to Heaven. He doesn’t talk to Sam. He doesn’t visit the dungeon. He doesn’t eat. He goes to Dean’s room and sits on the floor. He pulls Dean’s pillow down off the bed and into his lap, and buries his face in it, inhaling deeply. And then he drinks, and drinks until he can’t remember anything at all.


	6. Shells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Casturbation in the shower :)

Castiel doesn’t come out of Dean’s room for days. He sleeps on the floor, not allowing himself the comfort of a soft bed. He knows he reeks of sweat and whiskey, and he can’t bring himself to soil Dean’s sheets and destroy the remaining scent of Dean that still clings to them. He doesn’t care enough to shower, and he can’t bear to leave Dean’s room, doesn’t want his own bed anyway. At some point, he strips off Jimmy’s suit, Jimmy’s shoes, Jimmy’s socks, though they haven’t actually been Jimmy’s for years, aren’t even the same version that Jimmy himself wore, leaving just the undershirt and plain white boxers on. He refuses to borrow any of Dean’s clothes. 

 

He knows that Sam is tending to Michael’s basic needs because he tells him so. Sam leaves him sandwiches and pieces of fruit and bottles of water and Castiel hates himself. He thinks Sam must know from Castiel’s behavior what he found out at the sandbox, but they haven’t talked about it. Mostly because Castiel hasn’t talked at all. He knows he can’t go on like this, but he can’t bring himself to get up and do anything beyond opening another bottle of whiskey.

 

On day 4 of this, Castiel wakes feeling angry. He’s still pretty drunk, but sober enough to know a bad idea when he sees one. He goes to the dungeon anyway. When he stumbles inside, the scene has changed a bit. Michael’s restraints are now reduced to a single padded leg iron, attached to a chain that allows him about an 8-foot range. There’s a tray with crusts and peels on it, and Castiel feels a pang of guilt again for what he’s been putting Sam through on his own. Michael looks relatively clean and is in different clothes from the last time Castiel saw him. Dean’s clothes; well-worn jeans, a t-shirt, red flannel. Castiel’s fists clench. Michael is sitting on a twin sized mattress that’s been left on the floor and has his legs crossed in front of him. He’s reading a fucking book. Castiel doesn’t know why he’s surprised, or what he expected. Michael isn’t grieving, of course he isn’t. Michael is alive. Michael never cared about Dean in the first place. He looks up when Castiel walks in and puts down the book.

 

“You reek of frustration. Curls off of you like smoke.”

 

“Actually, we call that Scotch,” Castiel retorts and stumbles forward, attempting to look intimidating and knowing he’s failing pretty miserably. 

 

“Have you come to kill me finally?” Michael wants to appear careless, and even as drunk as he is, Castiel can tell this. A swell of anger fills him and he surges forward, grabbing Dean’s flannel shirt, and using it to slam Michael’s head back against the wall.

 

“I will not let you dishonor Dean this way,” he growls, his face inches from Michael’s. “This is not Dean’s legacy. This is not how this ends.”    
  


Michael doesn’t recoil, but he does wrinkle his nose in disgust. “This is grief,” he says. “I’m watching human grief. It’s like offal in my mouth.”

 

Desperate, Castiel tries one last time, knowing it’s futile, knowing it’s not even possible, he tries. “If you stay here, you’ll taste it every day, every second. Leave. Leave this vessel. Return Dean to us, and you can be free.”

 

Michael snorts. “Do you really think I would stay if I had any choice? Any way to change this? This fate is worse than death. Condemned to live out my existence in a vessel now incapable of sustaining my true glory. How am I to function with such limitation? I reek of humanity.”

 

It’s Castiel’s turn to snort. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Castiel releases Dean’s shirt and lets his hand fall to his side, defeated. His head spins from the alcohol. He drops his chin to his chest and falls forward, resting his face on Michael’s chest for a moment. It feels good, but just as he remembered, it doesn’t smell the same. This isn’t Dean. He thinks he’s fallen asleep and is dreaming for a moment when he feels a hand on his back, and then Michael speaks.

 

“You wish for me to live, to learn to be human. You feel this will bring honor to the memory of your lost friend.”

 

Castiel takes a deep breath and pushes himself upright. He’s sitting on Michael’s legs now, and Michael stares at him without blinking. Castiel nods.

 

“This vessel… isn’t it what you desire? You loved this, part of you still does. I can feel it in you and I… I wish to explore it further. I could be him for you.”

 

Castiel pushes off and scrambles backward, like he’s been shocked. He gets to his feet, unsteady, but quick enough. “No.”

 

“Castiel, I am trying. I wish to understand what you feel for him.”

 

“No!” Castiel snaps and backs away. “You… like this? It sickens me. Don’t be him. Don’t ever be him.” He turns and flees the room, bolting up the stairs and tripping several times- falling to his knees, catching himself on his hands. He’s bleeding from somewhere by the time he reaches Dean’s room, but he hardly notices. He collapses to the floor and opens the bottle of whiskey he left there last night. He takes a short drink and then contemplates the bottle. He closes it again, and lays down instead on Dean’s pillow, burying his face and pretending there’s any part of Dean left there to drown himself in. 

 

***

When Castiel wakes several hours later, his head is clearer, and he thinks he has the semblance of a plan to help Michael, and maybe himself. But first, he needs to talk to Sam. He stands up and catches a whiff of the smell coming off of him. Change of plans. Shower first, then talk to Sam. Being human is not just overwhelming and painful, it’s also frequently disgusting. 

 

Castiel has always been partial to the bunker’s showers. Even as an angel, when it was completely unnecessary, there were a few times he utilized them after a particularly bloody hunt. Castiel thinks he might have been falling, even then. What kind of angel chooses to shower? He’s always been destined for this… He just always envisioned, that if he ended up choosing to fall permanently, he wouldn’t have done it just to end up alone. Castiel chastises himself, he shouldn’t disregard Sam that way. But Sam is a brother. And as much as Castiel loves him, he always knew he would fall for Dean. 

 

As the shower heats up, it starts creating curtains of steam in the room, making the air heavy and fogging the mirrors. Castiel stands in front of one of them and wipes it with the front of his shirt. He stares at his reflection and feels a little sick, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he forces himself to pull the soiled t-shirt over his head, and then push the boxers down over his hips. He bends a little to step out, and then straightens and takes himself in head-on. 

 

Castiel stopped thinking of his body as Jimmy’s vessel years ago, especially after his first experience with humanity, but current events make it impossible for him to ignore the similarities between himself and the creature in the dungeon. He could very easily have been the same monster. Had he not been killed and resurrected, who knows how long Jimmy’s soul would have stuck around. Are he and Michael really so different? Isn’t their major difference the time that they’ve each had to adjust to being human? Castiel isn’t naive, he does know there’s another force that’s responsible for his humanity, something much bigger than time. But he has no way or desire to provide that for Michael, and there’s nothing he can do about that, so it won’t do to dwell. 

 

Castiel runs his hands over his tanned skin, noting the firmness of his pecs, the tattoo still marking his abdomen, the sharpness of his hip bones. He turns to the side and takes in the bulge of his arm muscles, peeks over his shoulder and sees the muscles ripple in his back as he flexes, the curved swell of his bottom above where it meets his legs, the thickness of his thighs. He looks strong, healthy, well-taken care of. The opposite of what he feels on the inside. 

 

Castiel has considered his body before, the last time he was human, but not more than he had to. The last time, his mortal body was an incessant, physical reminder of everything he had done wrong, of how gullible and naive he had been. He took care of its needs, but no more than that. He maintained it with the idea that it was all temporary, that he would retrieve his grace and never have to think about things like body odor, and urinating, and hunger, again. He hadn’t given in to any of his sexual urges after April, either. As much as he had put on a confident face for Dean and Sam, that event was concretely set as yet another item on his long list of failings. Not to mention, the type of thoughts that generally made those urges rise up in him felt shameful, since at the time he was sure that they were unrequited and unwanted. Back then, it was best to push those feelings down and forget about them. 

 

But this is his body now. It may have been the shell of Jimmy, once upon a time, but Castiel is ready now to banish whatever of that ghost remains. Castiel vows to honor the man whose face he wears by really living in their body this time. He will eat well, exercise, he will make Jimmy proud. He cringes a little. Jimmy would probably not care much for this stream of thought, but Castiel knows he must play the hand he’s been dealt. He is not a shell. But then, what does that make Michael? What would Dean think of Castiel helping Michael live in his body?

 

Castiel realizes that he’s been standing long enough for the mirror to have fogged up heavily again, and the ceiling is dripping with condensation. He puts aside the heavy thoughts, for now, grabs a fresh towel from the stack and hangs it next to the shower stall. He steps in and adjusts the water to a comfortable hot. Already in the stall are a variety of personal care items, and a steam-proof little mirror suction-cupped to the tile. Castiel cleans himself using Sam’s shampoo and conditioner and Sam’s body wash, then rinses off and regards his beard. It’s grown in a lot more than he’s ever dealt with. Dean’s razor is there and he picks it up, turning it over in his hand. “It’s just a razor,” he says out loud, and nods, as if he can convince himself. He shaves quickly, only nicking himself a couple of times, and returns the razor to its holder. He likes feeling the smoothness of his face, it feels good on his palms. Technically, he’s done. He should get out and dry off, find Sam and see about some clothes. 

 

But he hesitates, eyeing Dean’s body wash. Truthfully, he’s not enjoying smelling like Sam. Not that it’s unpleasant, it just doesn't feel right. Castiel picks up the other bottle and snaps the cap, turning it over and pouring a little into his open palm. The scent fills the shower, and Castiel can’t help but close his eyes and inhale deeply. Dean. His head swims a little and his eyes prick at the corners. He has to reach out and steady himself on the tile, but he recovers quickly. 

 

When he’s upright again, he’s almost surprised to find himself hardening between his legs. This desire is so much more difficult to ignore than he remembers. He reaches down and gently, almost hesitantly, wraps his fingers around his length, and immediately feels both relief and guilt, but he doesn’t stop. He’s hot and hard, his own fist feeling so good, and Castiel wants to feel good so badly. His hand moves easily, slicked by the suds from Dean’s shower gel, and he reaches his other hand back out to the tile to keep himself steady. In this position, he can keep his hand still and fuck into his fist by moving his hips. Castiel closes his eyes and tilts his head back, allowing himself the freedom that comes with just feeling, and not thinking. Sudsing up the lather has the exciting side effect of intensifying the smell, and Castiel can hardly be blamed for succumbing fully to his body’s demands. He finds himself wishing he had more hands, or that he was laying down so that he could explore the rest of his skin. His nipples are hard, and he imagines it might feel good to pinch them, to run his fingers teasingly down his ribs, perhaps down to his balls or even all the way back to his hole. He wonders what that would be like, but can’t quite get his legs back under him enough to trust letting go of the wall and freeing up his other hand to find out. Castiel bites his lip and realizes the hand on his cock is picking up the pace on its own, the fantasies in his head starting to come rapid-fire, almost against his will. Almost. He sees Dean up close, in his arms, looking at him through his lashes. Dean, rubbing his stubbled jaw across Castiel’s newly smooth one. Dean, naked in front of him, whole and beautiful. Dean, his hand wrapping around Castiel’s cock and squeezing. Dean, smiling slyly, dropping to his knees in front of Castiel, hair soaking wet, beads of water dripping down his face. Dean, opening his mouth, his pink tongue slipping out slightly as he leans forward and- “Ohhh!” Castiel cries out as his orgasm comes on and hits him suddenly and mercilessly. He comes hard, all over his hand, losing his balance after all and falling to his knees with a painful thud. He kneels there, breathing hard, watching the evidence of his actions passively wash from his body and swirl down the drain. Castiel drops his softening cock and covers his face, full of rage and shame at himself for what he’s done and the way he’s used the memory of Dean. He moans low and long and doesn’t try to stop the tears this time. They mix with his come swirling down the drain and that at least, feels right.

 

When Castiel exits the shower and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror again, his newfound resolve has shattered. He feels empty, broken, and like that’s all he’ll ever be, here without Dean. Michael was right. He is a shell. In an impulsive fit of rage, Castiel punches the mirror, just to watch his reflection go to pieces. He leaves the mess where it falls.

 


	7. What We Owe to Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What We Owe to Each Other" is a real book on ethics and social contract theory and is super applicable to the issues in this chapter. ...I swear this isn't as boring as I think I just made it sound.

Castiel finds Sam researching in the library again. He’s sitting quietly and there’s no sign of his tantrum from days ago. How long has it even been? Castiel isn’t sure. He’s also not sure how to proceed so for a few moments, he just stands there in his towel, hair still wet enough to be dripping water onto the floor. Sam doesn’t look up, so Castiel finally says, “What are you working on, Sam?” Sam jumps about a foot in the air and presses a hand to his chest, breathing heavily. He glares at Castiel, but there’s no heat in it.

 

“Geez, man. Don’t sneak up on a guy like that.” Castiel feels a little pang in his chest at the familiar phrase. 

 

“Dean never got around to getting me that bell…” He looks down at his feet. This is uncharted territory. Castiel realizes he’s been so busy wallowing, he has no idea how Sam is coping.

 

“I might have a case-”

 

“I want to apologize-”

 

They both speak at once and then stumble over their words trying to defer to each other. After a few awkward moments, Sam puts up a hand and Castiel waits. “You go first,” he says. 

 

Castiel shifts. “I just… I wanted to apologize, Sam, for my behavior over the past few days. I’m not used to these human emotions… and Dean…” He swallows. “But there is no excuse. I wanted to see how you were feeling, perhaps discuss how we proceed from here.” Castiel pauses for a moment, and then amends, “And perhaps borrow some clothing. My suit has become impractical.” Another beat. “And it smells.”

 

Sam gives him a small but genuine smile and pushes back from the table. “I didn’t really think you wanted to have this conversation half-naked,” he quips, and heads off down towards the bedrooms, beckoning Castiel to follow. 

 

“Sam,” Castiel calls after him and then hesitates as Sam turns around. “I need to get this out. I know that it’s customary for humans in these situations to offer comfort to each other. And I have been terribly selfish, so I just…” Sam raises his eyebrows, and Castiel rushes forward, throwing his arms around Sam and squeezing. “Sam, you can count on me.” 

 

Sam huffs out a little laugh and pats Castiel between the shoulder blades. “I know, Cas. I know I can. We’re family. But seriously, man, let’s get you some clothes.” He gently pushes Castiel back and heads off again. “By the way, speaking of family, I talked to Mom, let her know what’s going on.”

 

“Oh?” Castiel hurries to catch up with Sam’s long strides.

 

“She thinks it’s best if she and Bobby stay out on the road for a while, keep Jack away until this thing sorts itself out.” Sam pushes open the door to his room and holds it for Castiel. “She said she’ll call if she needs us, but Bobby’s enjoying playing Dad, apparently.” He turns away and starts rummaging through his dresser drawers.

 

Castiel’s brow furrows, and he tries to tread lightly, but he can’t completely mask his concern. “Sam… what exactly do you mean by ‘until this thing sorts  itself out’?”

 

Sam straightens but doesn’t turn back around. “I mean… Cas, we can’t keep Michael locked up down there forever, but I have a hard time imagining letting him just walk around wearing Dean’s face. What are we going to do here? Set him up in a bedroom and teach him to use deodorant and make grilled cheese?” Sam shakes his head, stops moving clothes around and grips the side of one of the drawers. “Dean wouldn’t want that. He’d want us to take him out.” 

 

Castiel’s eyes widen as Sam’s meaning sinks in. “You think Dean would want us to kill him.”

  
Sam nods, still facing away. “I do.”

 

Castiel turns and sinks down on the side of Sam’s bed. “I must admit, Sam, this is not exactly how I thought this conversation would go.”

 

Sam finally turns back around, holding a stack of clothing. “These might be a little on the long side,” he says, handing them over, and Castiel takes them gratefully. Sam looks at Castiel sideways and says carefully, “Are you sure you don’t want some that would... fit you a bit better?” His subtle meaning isn’t lost on Castiel, who shakes his head and thanks him for the clothes. He stands and drops the towel without shame, dressing quickly. Sam just averts his eyes and shakes his head slightly. 

 

“I am dressed. Can we finish the conversation now?” Castiel sits back down on the bed, and Sam sighs, straddling his desk chair from behind and resting his arms on the back. Castiel continues, “I think killing Michael, now that he is in human form, would be a mistake. We have to presume that he now has a soul, and that said soul can be saved. Dean was never in favor of killing innocent humans.”

 

“Innocent? Cas, Michael is hardly innocent. He may have a soul, but he’s the reason Dean is gone. How many humans’ deaths do you think he was responsible for back in Apocalypse world? For all we know, that count is in the millions.” 

 

“And he was an angel then,” Castiel responds stubbornly. “Don’t misunderstand me, Sam. I do not underestimate him, and I do not forgive him. It makes my chest hurt, just thinking about Michael ‘walking around wearing Dean’s face’, as you say. But this is not the first time we have faced a morally grey situation regarding ending someone’s life, and we’ve made exceptions before.”

 

Sam slams his hand on the chair and gets to his feet. “And they’ve ALWAYS backfired on us, Cas,” he yells, frustrated, and Castiel starts a little. Sam takes a moment to center himself, and after clearing his throat, he continues, “Dean said the exact same thing to me, not too long ago. We’ve lost so much, giving people… giving  _ things _ , the benefit of the doubt. And now you want to give it to the thing that killed him? Do you really think he’d be up for this plan?”

 

Castiel is quiet for a moment, and then replies, “I’m not sure that what Dean would have wanted should factor into our decision here.” And then he says it. “Dean is gone.”

 

Sam’s jaw drops a little, and his hands slide off of the chair. “Yea, I know that, Cas.” He runs his hand through his hair, and Castiel notices that it’s getting a little long. He also notices Sam’s beard, which has grown in longer than Castiel has ever seen it. Sam IS still grieving, he realizes. Of course, he is. Castiel stands and reaches out for Sam. Unlike earlier in the hallway, Sam comes towards him this time, and this hug is not one-sided.

 

“Sam.” Castiel starts, holding Sam tight, and Sam clutches at him. “I’m so sorry, Sam. It’s my fault, I have no right… this is all my fault. I’ll do whatever you think is best.”

 

Sam sniffs, and pulls away, his eyes full and focused on the ceiling. He shakes his head slightly, and then meets Castiel’s eyes. “No,” he says. “No, you’re right. I’m too close to this, Cas. If you want to try and… reform Michael, or whatever, I’m not going to stop you.” He steps away and wipes the back of his flannel sleeve across his face. “I get that this is something you feel like you need to do.” He looks Castiel up and down, and Castiel feels exposed. “Anyway, it’s not like we can’t go to plan B later if that’s what needs to happen.”

 

Castiel nods respectfully, “I’ll take responsibility for him, Sam. You won’t have to do anything. I can… we could leave the bunker. If you don’t want to see him.”

 

Sam takes a deep breath and blows it out. “I don’t want you to leave Cas. Like I said, we’re family, and I need you here with me. I’ll… we’ll figure it out together.” Castiel nods. “I’m just not quite ready yet… you know, to help.”

 

“Of course. I understand. Thank you, Sam.”

 

Sam gives him a small, sad smile. “I’m going to head back to the library, get some more research done for the case Mom and Bobby are working with Jack. Maybe order a pizza in a bit. You want in?” 

 

Castiel shakes his head. “I thought I’d see about relocating our guest.” Sam flinches a little, and Castiel chooses to ignore it. “If… that’s alright.” 

 

Sam nods, though, and that’s more than enough for now. “You know where I’ll be,” he says, and as he heads back towards the library, Castiel heads for the dungeon. 

 

***

 

Michael looks bored. It makes him appear so much smaller, so much more human. He’s actually sprawled out on the small mattress, arms folded across his chest, staring at the ceiling. The position is so casual, so effortless, Castiel has to blink a few times before he can see Michael and not Dean. He shakes that thought off, he can’t afford to make mistakes like that. Michael may be human now, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous. Doesn’t mean he’s going to cooperate. Perhaps he’ll just keep pushing Castiel’s buttons until they simply annoy each other to death. There’s an encouraging thought. 

 

Castiel sits down next to Michael’s mattress, and crosses his legs. “There’s this human theory,” he starts, “Contractualism. It’s a social contract theory that offers an explanation for why humans so often do the right thing when they have so many choices. It states that if an action is wrong, the opposite of that action must be right, according to a set of general rules that everyone has agreed to, mostly on the basis of being reasonable.” He stops and regards Michael, who is still staring at the ceiling, but appears to be listening. “Being an angel has nothing to do with reason. Being a human, a good one, will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.” He softens his tone a bit. “I can help you.”

 

“And if I refuse?” Michael doesn’t look at him.

 

“Then you opt out of the social contract. You stay in this dungeon, you suffer from isolation, boredom, and you get to keep urinating in a bucket.” Castiel shrugs. “Social contracts are mutually beneficial.” 

 

Michael finally turns his head, and looks at him for a long moment before replying. “The human experience is so small. Even your world is small. And yet, you box yourselves in rooms even smaller. You shut yourselves inside… in rooms, in routines.”

 

“You speak as if you don’t know that I’ve felt exactly as you do now, once.” Castiel looks down at his human hands and thinks for a moment, and Michael’s eyes remain on him. “Sometimes still.”   
  


It’s silent between them for a few moments, and then Michael sighs. “You really don’t worship me at all, do you?”

 

“And you really can’t leave.” Michael’s eyes darken at that, and Castiel takes pity on him. “If it helps, I’m not sure I even worshipped our Father. Not the way he meant for angels to. And at His worst, with all His failings, He was far more worthy than you.” Castiel glances at Michael, but the man is back to staring at the ceiling. “There are things worse than walls, you know. Terrible, beautiful things. If we look at them for too long, they will burn right through us. Truths we couldn’t bear. Not every day.”

 

Michael nods, almost imperceptibly. “Humans. They… we... are so weak.”

“Yes. Yes, we are.” Castiel lets that hang in the air for a moment, and then gets to his feet. “Will you come with me? This may not be the worst of humanity, but it’s not the best there is, either. Let me show you.” 

 

Michael meets his gaze and holds it. “The things that the other angels of your world say about you are all true, Castiel. I don’t know whether to laugh at you, run from you, or take your hand.”  Castiel raises his eyebrows, and responds by holding that hand out in offering.

 

Michael takes it.

 

That’s a start.

 

***

Castiel spends hours explaining to Michael the basics of caring for a human body. He knows that Sam was being facetious with his comment about deodorant, but Castiel knows from experience and having to learn these things on one’s own, that Sam was actually right on the mark, whether he realized it or not. He shows Michael everything no one ever showed him, from how to put toothpaste on a toothbrush, to how to operate the shower and flush the toilet. He shows him where linen is kept, and gives him a selection of Dean’s clothes. He sets him up in an empty bedroom, and relocates the leg iron from the dungeon to an iron knot on the wall. Castiel is privately thankful that the Men of Letters must have dealt with some less-than-trustworthy but not exactly evil guests at some point.

 

It’s surprising to Castiel, though, that he finds Michael’s varied reactions to the machinations of being human interesting, perhaps even amusing. After witnessing Michael’s wide-eyed refusal to even attempt the shower, the five full minutes of tongue-scraping he engaged in after trying mint toothpaste, and his begrudging admittance that the mattress on the bed is superior to the piece of crap he had in the basement, Castiel realizes that he’s not altogether miserable. He’s not happy, either, but perhaps he really can make a difference in this one life. Perhaps he can save one soul. Perhaps he will not fail Michael, the way he failed Dean, even if Michael deserves to be failed ten times over.

 

Around midnight, Castiel realizes that Michael has fallen asleep (likely in self-defense) in his new bed, in the middle of Castiel attempting an overly in-depth and far-too-ambitious-for-day-one nutrition lesson. Castiel hesitates, but attaches the leg iron before covering Michael with a blanket and leaving the room. 

 

Castiel walks the halls of the bunker for a while before coming to a stop in front of Dean’s door. Even though he’s been sleeping on the floor of this room ever since he fell, Castiel still feels like he’s intruding on a space that isn’t his. Unable to shake it off, he can’t bring himself to bed down there again, nor does he have any desire to lay on cold, empty sheets in another room with no scent memory, and no history of Dean’s presence.

 

Instead, he finds himself ascending the stairs out of the bunker. Outside, the air is clear and cool, and there’s a slight, crisp breeze. Castiel doesn’t stop at ground level. He follows the same path that he took the night of the spell, climbing the levels of the abandoned building above the bunker until he emerges out onto the roof. It’s there that he lays down and takes in the night sky. The stars are bright and beautiful, and Castiel feels as close to home as he ever has on earth, despite the chill. There’s a passing wave of sadness when he realizes he’ll never travel amongst the stars the way he used to as an angel, but the feeling is fleeting, and more nostalgia than anything else. Castiel finds himself feeling sadder at the thought that his human life isn’t shaping up to look the way he imagined it, rather than the fact that he’s human in the first place. 

 

Castiel has only been on the roof for a few minutes when he realizes he is not alone. “It should have occurred to me that having access to Dean’s memories would include his lock-picking skills,” he says, not bothering to sit up. Michael appears at his side, looking down on him. “Perhaps you could have reminded me of that  _ before  _ the awkward lecture on personal hygiene.”

 

Castiel thinks he might see the ghost of an actual smile on Michael’s lips. “I enjoyed your discomfort.” He pauses, and then adds, “The part about the different vegetables and fruits was very boring, though.”

 

“I noticed. Perhaps that’s more of a practical learning activity. Would you like to sit?” 

 

Michael doesn’t answer and instead walks to the edge of the roof and looks out.

 

“The walls don't press in as hard when you can't see them,” Castiel says.

 

“They are still here,” Michael replies, and Castiel is silent. “I am still trapped. Instead of a dungeon, on a roof. Just one roof, in this one time and this one place, with an unstable, equally new human who drinks too much whiskey and is in love with my vessel.”

 

“You could have left.”

 

“And gone where?”

 

Castiel shrugs. “You wouldn’t be the first human to refuse to let your mere mortality chase you from your aspirations of world domination. Though historically, that’s never ended well.” Michael doesn’t reply, and Castiel can’t help but push the other button. “You could have killed yourself. Ended this misery. I would have thought… opportunity and all…” he trails off.

 

Michael looks up at the sky for a few moments, and then back over his shoulder at Castiel. “I thought perhaps… that would be a disappointment to you.”

 

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “And that stopped you? Your concern for me?”

 

“No,” Michael says quickly, looking away. “I do not care what you feel.”

 

“Something stopped you,” Castiel replies. 

 

Michael hesitates, and Castiel waits quietly, giving him space and time. “I can feel him, Castiel. Even though his soul is gone, I can still see his memories, and some of these memories come with… feelings. They come over me unbidden, I’ve been immersed in all of the times this vessel felt weak, hopeless, beaten down.” He shoots Castiel a glance. “Times he was disappointed by you, or his brother, those were especially hard for him. When he thought you were dead this past year, he didn’t care whether he lived or died. Yet even then, he wouldn’t take his own life in such a cowardly way. This vessel… Dean. Dean Winchester... He was just a human. How could he be so much braver than me?” 

 

Michael takes a deep breath, and paces away from the edge of the building, far enough that he’s blending into the shadows now. Castiel watches him, a pit in his stomach, half desperate to hear more about what might be left of Dean, and the rest wanting to bolt down the stairs, to flee as far and as fast as he can from this perversion. He forces himself to be still.

 

“He spent what feels like half of his life missing you, even when you were right next to him. And now he is gone, and you are here, and still, you miss him. Will you always? Will there come a day where his memory is just that?” Michael shakes his head, barely perceptible in the dark. “Humans… You cling to what is gone. Is there anything in this life but grief?”

 

Castiel swallows hard, past the lump in his throat and the burning in his chest. “There's love,” he starts. “There's hope, for some. There's hope that you'll find something worthy. That your life will lead you to some joy. That after everything, you can still be surprised.”

 

Michael finally turns and makes his way back to Castiel’s side. He kneels next to him and meets his gaze straight on. “And is that enough? Castiel…  is that enough to live for?”

 

Castiel holds his gaze. “I don’t know,” he whispers.


	8. Memories... Do Not Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a hot touch of dubcon. It's more manipulation than anything else, nothing explicit occurs.

Time passes. Some days are slower, harder than others. Occasionally, Castiel will catch sight of Michael standing somewhere- in the library, the kitchen, his bedroom, and he’ll look so much like Dean that Castiel’s heart skips a beat. And then Michael will move or blink, and he’ll be back to appearing completely foreign, an alien crawling under Dean’s skin, his movements not quite smooth or natural enough to pass for human, even to an untrained eye, and Castiel will wonder how he could ever make the mistake of confusing them.

 

With Dean’s memories functioning as a sort of touchstone, things seem to go more smoothly than they likely would have if Castiel had been forced to start from scratch. Castiel isn’t sure he would have been able to build Michael a set of ethics and morality AND foster any kind of real inclination to follow it, so thank whoever for small miracles. There’s still a learning curve, of course. Understanding the process of doing something isn’t the same as building the muscle memory, and Michael struggles with simple things like maintaining his facial hair, eating regularly, and remembering to use a pot holder. Likewise, having access to the memories of a good person doesn’t always translate directly either. 

 

Castiel discovers that Michael’s frustration at both his humanity and the perceived humiliation of having to learn from Castiel, of all people, of all angels, has translated into a rage problem. Castiel teaches him to channel those feelings into target practice, an idea Sam was definitely not one hundred percent comfortable with, but even Sam has to agree that if Michael wanted to kill them while they slept, he hasn’t lacked for opportunity. Michael spends hours perfecting his shooting skills, and when he’s irritable but not in the mood for that, they spar; Castiel welcoming the opportunity to sharpen his own rusty hand-to-hand combat skills, and overall Michael seems OK. And if Castiel enjoys slamming Michael down on the practice mats and hurting him just a little bit where there’s the perfect excuse for it, no one has to know. They all seem to be coping, and Castiel worries slightly less that Michael is going to snap and shove an angel blade through his stomach, if not for efficiency, then just for old time’s sake. Sam continues to make himself scarce. 

 

After Michael’s previous demonstration of his mastery of Dean’s skills in the art of escape, the leg iron has been left off. And Michael himself has stayed in. While never having been officially restricted to the bunker’s premises, he hasn’t made any attempt to explore away from it. Castiel has formed the opinion that he’s more scared of having to navigate the world as a human than his bravado lets on. Michael does often go up to the roof of the abandoned building above the bunker, especially at night, and it’s those times that Castiel is most apt to follow him. They don’t always speak, sometimes choosing to spend hours just staring at the stars. In those moments Castiel always feels just a little guilty, because Michael understands. And it feels good to be understood. As the days go on, he doesn’t even notice that he’s hardly even angry anymore, at least not at Michael. 

 

And so they go forward. Sam and Michael don’t often cross paths, save for an awkward and brief meal or two per day. During those times, Michael is cordial but distant towards Sam, and that demeanor isn’t exactly enticing Sam to get closer. Instead, Sam checks in regularly with Castiel and makes no move to get to know Michael or to help him. Castiel doesn’t push. He knows very well that what he’s doing must seem as crazy as it is necessary to Sam, and he is more than willing to continue to take on Michael by himself, just as he promised. Every day, he works to broaden Michael’s education on humanity, which, for a being that’s an eon or so older than even he is, is surprisingly lacking. Or perhaps unsurprisingly, Castiel thinks. 

 

Michael was ruthless towards humanity in his former life, curating a world full of equally ruthless angels to support his mission. Castiel has always felt that to know humanity is to love it, and he prays he won’t be proven wrong now. The two former angels have long discussions about objective topics like evolution, industry, wars, and technology, as well as more abstract concepts such as human ambition, conflict, spirituality, and love. They sit in the library, or the roof, or in Michael’s bedroom (but never Dean’s) and drink tea or whiskey, depending on the hour of the day, and Castiel grows to appreciate Michael’s mind. Combined with Michael’s own history and experiences, it is sharp and vastly capable in a way an angel wouldn’t know to be proud of.  Against his better judgment, Castiel finds himself enjoying his time with this creature, even when his lessons are being challenged, and as such, he finds himself learning as well. The exception would be when the topic turns to that of romantic love. At that, Castiel finds himself subtly steering the conversation away from it more than once. Some things are still just too difficult, when his student is, after all, wearing Dean’s face. He lets himself off the hook for this easily, reminding himself that he’s only human. 

 

It’s a few weeks of this before Michael grows tired of Castiel’s avoidance of a topic that he is, for unfathomable reasons, completely enamored with. When pushed, Michael will only say that it’s “an intricate part of the full human experience,” and while Castiel knows this is true, it doesn’t make him any more agreeable to subjecting himself to  _ that _ particular torture. The 24/7 accountability to essentially reforming a monster in his almost-lover's body is more than enough sadism for him, thank you very much. Still, Michael tries three times that day to discuss romantic love, what it feels like, and specifically, what it felt like to Castiel. Usually, he allows Castiel to skate away from the subject with very little resistance, but today he pushes and repeatedly returns to the topic. Stubbornly, Castiel doesn’t acknowledge either the topic or his own unwillingness to discuss it. 

 

Michael is smarter, more clever than Castiel gives him credit for, and that is his first mistake. It’s easy to underestimate Michael, after watching him struggle to master using a steak knife or select the amount of laundry detergent needed per load, or confuse salt for sugar in coffee. But these things are not a reflection of any human’s intelligence, nor are they an indicator of someone’s lack of ability to read a situation and manipulate it. Castiel fails to realize until he is about three fingers of whiskey too deep that this is exactly what is occurring.  

 

They’ve been on the roof since mid-afternoon, and the sky is nearing the end of a glorious sunset now. A bit ago, Michael had disappeared downstairs and returned a short while later with a bottle of amber liquid. Well within the norm of their daily routines, Castiel thinks nothing of passing the bottle back and forth until a pleasant buzz starts to hum under his skin. Just a little more then, to make him feel warm and comfortable in the early autumn chill. Ultimately, it’s enough that he doesn’t notice the subtle shift in the presence next to him until a warm body is pressed up against his back. 

 

“Cas,” Dean’s voice murmurs, and Castiel’s entire body goes stiff. Fingers drift down both sides of his ribcage and graze their way forward, over his chest and coming to rest intertwined on his abdomen. Castiel closes his eyes and shakes his head no. He opens his mouth, but words don’t come out.  He’s more intoxicated than he realized, heavy and slow with it. “You feel so good,” Dean’s voice says, in his ear now and so warm, so full of affection, that Castiel just doesn’t have the willpower to resist. He’s tried, he hurts, and he just needs a minute. He knows this is wrong, that this cannot be, but it’s impossible to connect that thought with reality when Dean is here and real and wrapped around him and Dean’s hands are on his body, and Dean’s lips are on his neck. Castiel’s eyes fill with tears, and he can’t hold back a sob.

 

“Dean,” he manages to choke out, and then he’s turning, crawling into the body behind him, burying his head in Dean’s neck. “Dean… oh, Dean, I miss you so much,” he cries, his head spinning, the whiskey blurring everything he thinks and feels, and the tears falling freely. He feels a hand on his head, fingers moving through his hair, holding him so carefully. He takes a few shuddering breaths and finally gets a hand on Dean’s chest, gently pushing him back. Castiel braces himself and raises his eyes slowly to meet the green ones in front of him. He can’t help but let out a quiet, broken noise that feels like it gets stuck in his throat. 

 

He swallows around it and then pushes away again, somehow managing to get to his feet, unsteady from both alcohol and emotion. He drags his sleeve across his face, swiping at his eyes and nose, and by the time he drops his arm, his expression has hardened. He meets Michael’s gaze again, and the man has the decency to look the slightest bit nervous. After a moment, when he trusts his voice again not to shake he says, “Did you get what you needed from that experience?”

 

Michael looks down at his own hands in his lap. “It… it was very informative.”

 

Castiel nods, looking out over the darkening landscape and sniffling. He picks up the bottle and heads for the stairs. As he passes Michael he pauses. “Do it again, and I’ll kill you,” he says, and promptly vanishes into the night, leaving Michael sitting alone on the roof.

 

***

 

Castiel disappears for a week after that night. Sam knows that he’s still in the bunker, as the tea he drinks and the foods he likes continue to disappear, and the bunker showers smell like Dean’s body wash, which no one but Castiel uses, but he doesn’t see him. He checks Dean’s room at odd hours, heads for the washroom if he hears water running, opens his bedroom door in the middle of the night if he hears footsteps. But he doesn’t see Castiel. Sam figures he must be holed up in one of the more rarely-explored corners of the bunker, and decides to give him space for a few more days before he starts helicoptering in on him. Castiel must have his reasons.

 

It’s not easy though. Because now there is no buffer between him and his brother’s killer. His brother’s killer that sits at his breakfast table, and eats his Kashi cereal, and wanders around his home in sock feet and flannel, and is currently staring at him like he’s a starving dog and Sam has a cheeseburger. Sam wishes their relationship were that simple. That there was something he could throw in Michael’s general direction that would get him to leave him alone, but Michael clearly wants something. Sam clears his throat. “Is there… Is there something you need?”  In his head, he’s praying desperately, ‘Please say no, please say no.’ Sam contemplates the fact that he would rather be stuck in the car for days with Mary and Bobby making googly eyes at each other than helping Michael Not-Dean with literally anything. 

  
Michael continues the unnerving staring and cocks his head to the side. “You would offer me assistance, even though you despise me?”

 

Sam shrugs, glances up briefly and then focuses back on his cereal. “Humans are weird like that, I guess.”

 

Michael nods slowly. “I've grown wary of this world since my powers were depleted, but perhaps you don’t deserve my skepticism, any more than I deserve your compassion. It’s strange... though I've been made more human, this place remains disconcerting.”

 

Sam scoffs. “Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, but that never goes away. Anyway, I thought Cas was giving you a primer on all things human?”

 

Michael is silent for a moment and then replies. “He and I are no longer having intercourse.”

 

Sam chokes on his mouthful of grains and hacks for a minute before he can talk. He looks at Michael incredulously. “I... you what?  _ What _ ?” Michael’s expression doesn’t change.

 

“He has ceased communication with me.”

 

“Oh! Oh.” Sam breathes a sigh of relief and runs a hand through his hair. “Communi--” he starts, but is abruptly cut off.

 

“My recent reversion to the vessel- Dean’s- persona disturbed him. And he will not tell me why.” Michael blurts out and then stares straight ahead again.

 

“Um… you don't know?” Michael shakes his head, and Sam mirrors him, his mouth curving into a slight smile born of disbelief. He can’t decide whether to tread cautiously or rail at him.  “You may not be as powerful as you were, but Michael, looking like Dean…” He pauses and takes a breath. “For some of us... That’s the most devastating power you could have.” Sam gathers the refuse from breakfast, including Michael’s dishes and throws them in the sink without washing. He heads up and out of the bunker, needing to be absolutely anywhere but there for a while.

 

***

 

When Michael finds Castiel later that day, he’s behind the bunker, sitting in a field. He appears to be watching a bee pop from flower to flower, and his expression looks blank.

 

“Castiel,” Michael starts. 

 

“I don’t want to hear it,” Castiel cuts him off without sparing a glance in his direction, but Michael doesn’t leave.”

 

“I… I wish to apologize, for… hurting you?” The last part of his sentence has an upward inflection, that of a question. Castiel barks out a short, bitter laugh.

 

Michael grabs his hair in frustration, “Castiel, I don’t know what to do. Have you any idea how few apologies I have ever deigned to give in the entirety of my existence? I have this feeling in my chest. I feel… regret. Sadness. I can see that you feel it too, and this was not my intention.”

 

Castiel turns to him then, his expression guarded. “No, I believe that your intention was to gain information… an experience… whatever it was that you wanted, regardless of the cost to me.”

 

“I only wished to understand. I thought perhaps I could do something for you, that you would allow me… that you would accept…” Michael is for once, at a loss for words, and he goes silent.

 

Castiel looks away again and his voice is hard. “You are not him. You will never be him. Seeing him like that, will only ever cause me pain. It will never be real. You will never, ever be him.”

 

Michael makes a frustrated noise, which is surprising enough to keep Castiel’s attention, for now. “I’m not trying to be him,” Michael says and Castiel snorts. “Not really,” he amends. “I feel... I feel loneliness, an aching space in my chest, where it feels like something is missing. I have these... urges. I have Dean’s dreams, his memories, and his feelings, which make being around you very confusing. I’m just trying... to understand.” 

  
“That’s not something I will ever be able to give you or help you to understand.” Castiel’s tone is firm and final. 

 

Michael nods. “I can accept that. I… will respect your wishes from now on. I am truly sorry.”

 

Castiel nods, and glances up at him, then back across the field. He pats the space next to him, and Michael sits down, awkwardly trying to imitate Castiel’s cross-legged, casual pose. He looks incongruous and uneasy. Castiel flicks a sideways glance at him, and shifts so that they’re sitting close, thighs touching. He threads his arm through Michael’s and holds on. 

 

“This,” he says. “I can give you this.”

 

Michael examines their position, obviously considering the parts of them that are touching, as well as the parts that aren’t. “And what is… this?” His brow is furrowed, and he seems genuinely curious. 

 

Castiel puts his head down on Michael’s shoulder. “Humans call it comfort.”


	9. Pompeii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by the song by Bastille

Michael keeps his word and doesn’t push Castiel on his feelings about Dean anymore. Nor does he give any indication that Dean’s memories are still present or that they continue to impact him. Mostly, his conversations with Castiel stick to the business side of their (past) lives. The “family” business, that is, of course. Castiel has noted that Michael is frequently bringing up the Winchesters’ storied history of fighting the supernatural, the current state of Heaven, and his own related limitations as a human. He asks practical questions about hunting, reads the lore books in the library, and has even sat in on Sam discussing cases on the phone with Mary.  Castiel is aware of him edging around what he really wants to discuss in this realm, but that’s not a topic Castiel is willing to broach until he knows that Sam is completely on board. 

 

Castiel waits until Sam isn’t in the middle of researching, and catches him relaxing in his room with a movie on his laptop. He motions for Castiel to come in and sit down, so he does. Sam seems like he’s in as good of a mood as Castiel has seen him recently, so Castiel takes a chance and voices his thoughts about Michael, and Sam is surprisingly receptive. 

 

“You think he wants to hunt,” he repeats back to Castiel, who nods slowly.

 

“I think that he is contemplating it,” he replies. “He’s only ever known what it feels like to single-mindedly pursue a mission. It’s not surprising that he would look for purpose. I’m of the mind that encouraging any inclination he has that isn’t world domination or the extinction of the human race can only have a positive impact. Considering.”

 

Sam is quiet for a moment, seemingly mulling this over.  He picks up an orange from his bedside table and tosses it absently from hand to hand. He finally nods. “I’m really sick of being cooped up here. I wouldn’t mind getting back out there.”

 

Castiel furrows his brow. “Sam… you aren’t stuck here. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to get out, or get away from… us for a while. You could meet up with Mary and Bobby if you wanted. I’m sure Jack would love to see you.” 

 

Sam cocks his head to the side in playful annoyance and tosses the orange to Castiel, who fumbles it to the ground. He picks it up and tosses it awkwardly back. “I’m not leaving you alone with him, doofus. I know I haven’t been…” he gets quiet for a moment and spins the orange in his hands before sighing. “I could have been better. With Michael.” Castiel shakes his head and opens his mouth to interrupt, but Sam continues. “No, Cas, you don’t have to make excuses for me. I never made them for you. We’re both just trying to do the best we can.” He looks up and smiles. “But we  _ are _ in this together. And yea, I think a hunt could be good for us. For all of us. I’ll see if I can find something on the basic side somewhere locally, OK?” 

 

Castiel nods and stands, “I appreciate this, Sam. I will talk to Michael.” He turns to leave, but Sam clearing his throat stops him at the door.

 

“You should call Jack, though. He misses you. He’s adjusting well, but...” Sam shrugs.

 

Castiel nods. “I will. Thank you, Sam.”

 

***   
  


Michael seems relieved and even excited when Castiel is the one to offer up hunting as an option, and it’s the first time he’s really expressed that emotion. Castiel finds himself pleased to have read Michael correctly, and not altogether unhappy to be planning a real trip out of the bunker, though he privately harbors some concerns about Michael’s real reasons for wanting to hunt. It’s not likely the urge comes from an altruistic desire to improve the state of the world or actually help people, no. It’s far more likely that he’s bored, or just curious, and Castiel hasn’t fully ruled out the idea that he may want to get hurt just for the human experience of it all. It would be very much in line with his other actions thus far. He keeps these thoughts to himself. One thing at a time. After all, Michael does have to learn to live his own life and make his own choices. If Castiel and Sam can steer him towards some of the more constructive ones, well. All the better. 

 

There is also some talk between Castiel and Sam about whether they should introduce Michael to the world a bit more slowly, perhaps with a trip to the grocery store or a coffee shop first, but it’s decided that those things are actually far more foreign and therefore more dangerous to Michael (and the people he may encounter) than fighting a supernatural being. They make a joint decision that if things go to plan, and Michael seems ready (and controllable), they’ll consider stopping at a bar to celebrate a successful hunt. Drunk people are less likely to notice or care about a little social awkwardness, anyway. 

 

A few days after their initial conversation, Sam tells Castiel he thinks he’s found something. It’s a potential haunting in a small Kansas town about two hours away from the bunker. Sam seems to be pleased with his find, and the good fortune of locating exactly what he was looking for so close by. Castiel gets the feeling that Sam thinks this is some kind of sign and resists the urge to remind him that Heaven is literally almost empty, and God has been nowhere to be found for a couple years now. He lets Sam have his little moment, but he also does his own quick bit of internet sleuthing for any signs of Fate or similar lurking about. Satisfied that there doesn’t seem to be anything suspiciously extra-supernatural about this particular haunting and town, he agrees to make it their first hunt. 

 

Sam offers to go on ahead and knock out the research and interviews that might be needed, as well as come up with a plan of attack. Castiel makes him swear that he won’t do anything even remotely dangerous without backup, and Sam promises with a laugh, reminding Castiel that he has hunted alone before. Castiel glares, and Sam apologizes. Things are different now, and Sam knows that. He leaves the next morning in Baby, old duffel bag at his side and a pocketful of fake IDs. Castiel watches him disappear down the frontage road, and for a moment, it’s almost like nothing has changed at all. 

 

While waiting for Sam to return, Castiel and Michael prepare themselves by reviewing how humans hunt ghosts. Michael is a willing and attentive listener, repeating back what he hears and reviewing practical lessons such as pouring a salt circle and reloading the shotgun with salt shells. They round out the lesson with some sparring. After Michael pins him twice, Castiel calls timeout, slumps against the gym wall, and slides to the floor, breathing heavily. Hardly even winded, Michael sits next to him, close enough that their arms are touching. 

 

“Castiel,” he says, reaching out hesitantly, and laying his hand over Castiel’s on the floor. Castiel lets him, and Michael wraps his fingers and squeezes gently. These little platonic displays of affection have been becoming more common since that day in the field. Castiel turns his head to look at the man next to him. “I know that you can’t help me with these feelings. I promised I wouldn’t ask you to, and I won’t. I have tried to ignore them, but they are very… overwhelming, at times. Sometimes…” He cuts himself off, shakes his head, and tries a new tack. “Is there perhaps some other way for me to explore them?”

 

Castiel looks down at his lap and nods his head. He pulls his hand away but replies, “I might have an idea about that.” 

 

Michael gives him a smile and looks like he is going to say something else, but he’s interrupted by Sam’s return. 

 

“Hey, there you guys are. So get this, I don’t think we could have dreamed up a more perfect starter case.”

 

***

Sam is right about the case. It’s a clear-cut salt and burn, and Michael does surprisingly well. 

 

The spirit in question is most likely that of the house’s former occupant, who had supposedly killed himself in the home. Thanks to his research, Sam has concluded that the suicide was faked, and the guy’s ex-wife was actually to blame. She had inherited the house and then died in a freak fall down the stairs shortly after. With two deaths in such a short time frame, the house was sold at a bargain price to a young family who has since been experiencing the gamut of haunting symptoms. They didn’t need much convincing to hand over the problem's reigns to Sam and to relocate to a motel until the ghost has been taken care of. In fact, Sam probably could have taken care of the situation on his own, but he graciously keeps his promise to Castiel. With no innocent bystanders to potentially need protection, the case is almost laughably simple. When the three of them arrive, the house is empty and the spirit is quiet. They go right to the attic, where the family informed Sam there are a few boxes of the previous owner’s belongings. 

 

Michael is the one to stumble upon a baseball cap, with what appears to be a few strands of hair stubbornly stuck to it. He holds it up triumphantly, and it promptly goes flying out of his hand, thrown up and wedged between a couple of beams in the ceiling. Sam is the only one tall enough to reach it, so Michael and Castiel play defense while he does. Castiel is surprised but pleased to see Michael fully invested and acting like a team player. He lays down a salt circle without being asked and bats away flying objects like he’s been doing it for years. Once they get the hat back (and successfully block a bed frame hurled in their direction, Sam even hands Michael the lighter to do the honors. Michael flicks it, throws it down, and the hat goes up in flames, along with the spirit. Castiel claps him on the shoulder, and Michael looks proud. 

 

Back in the Impala, Castiel makes a decision. “I think we should go out,” he says. Sam raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t disagree. “It might be nice, to, um, socialize with other people… a little.”  Michael is listening and watching him, with a familiar tilt of his head to the side. “I mean, I don’t really care to talk to other people but you two, I mean, that is to say… perhaps Michael might benefit… would you… Sam?” He finishes haphazardly and bites his lip. Sam’s eyebrows are going to be in his hair if he raises them any further.

 

“Castiel,” Michael saves him. “Is this an attempt to help me understand the lust and longing feelings I have been having?”

 

“The what?!” Sam is turned around in the driver’s seat now, and Castiel has one hand over his own face. 

 

“He-” Castiel starts, but Sam puts up his hands.

 

“You know what, I don’t need to know this,” He shifts to face forward again, and turns over the keys in the ignition. Before he can pull away from the curb though, he turns to Castiel, jerking his thumb in Michael’s direction. “THAT is not Dean, Cas. You still remember that, right? He might walk like us, and eat like us and shower like us and fight on our side, and wear my brother’s face but that is NOT Dean.” He lowers his voice a touch. “You of all people, you should know.”

 

“Sam!” Castiel slams his hand on the dashboard, and then continues, voice quiet but full of fury. “How dare you.” Michael sits silently in the backseat, brow furrowed and eyes darting back and forth between his two companions. “Do you really think…” he starts and then cuts himself off with a bitter laugh. He takes a deep breath and then continues, spelling out his plan slowly and deliberately. “I want to take Michael to a bar, so that he can explore those feelings, with someone other than  _ me _ . Because  _ I _ will never, ever be an option for him.” 

 

The hardened mask that is Sam’s face drops, and he has the decency to look ashamed. He turns puppy dog eyes on Castiel but doesn’t apologize. “Yea, fine,” he says and lets out a hollow chuckle. “It’s not like this whole thing can get any weirder. Might as well have a beer while I help the angel who possessed and killed my brother to get laid or whatever.” 

  
Castiel gives him a look of annoyance. “No one said you had to come.” 

 

Sam laughs again. “Oh, I’m going. I need to see this.”

 

***

 

Sam actually turns out to be a reasonably helpful wingman. It appears his issue really isn’t with Michael’s feelings, but with Castiel’s, and once that misunderstanding is cleared, he at least acts like he’s OK. He gives Michael tips on engaging with someone he’s interested in, and reviews human “courting rituals”, as Michael calls them, such as offering to pay for drinks. It’s good that he does because Castiel realizes pretty quickly that he can’t get his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth. Wanting Michael to direct his potential feelings and affections elsewhere is one thing.  Watching Dean’s face and body actually go about the business of awkwardly flirting and chatting and even slow dancing is a whole other ballgame. Sam, for all of his bluster earlier, seems to get it. From their booth in the corner of the dive bar, they sip the dregs of warm beer and watch Michael and some girl sway to the sounds of the jukebox. Castiel notes Sam give him subtle directions on what to do with his hands, and Castiel signals the waitress for something harder. Sam puts his hand over Castiel’s and gives him a sad smile.

 

As soon as it comes, the whiskey disappears down Castiel’s throat and he turns to Sam, pulling his hand away. “Would you be as mad at me if I were to show interest in someone else?” 

 

Sam drops his head a little, fingering the bottle between his hands. “I was out of line,” he says. Castiel leans forward and spins his own empty glass on the table. He waits.  “I guess I just always thought it would be the three of us, you know? You and Dean, and me. It’s funny… I think I wanted this for you guys more than I even wanted someone for myself. I just always thought that if Dean ever... “ he stops and shakes his head, inhales deeply. “If it was going to be anyone, it was going to be you. And I guess I’m holding onto that when I shouldn’t. I know that isn’t fair. But we were family. We should have always been.” 

 

Castiel pushes to standing, takes Sam’s beer out of his hand and drains it, dropping it back onto the table with a clatter. He pulls on his jacket. “We are family, Sam. But Dean isn’t an option for me anymore. Dean is gone.” He makes his way out of the bar and into the night, without looking back. Because of this, he doesn’t see Michael’s gaze watching his every move. Doesn’t see Michael pull away from the girl he’s with and make his way back to Sam. And he doesn’t hear Michael ask Sam what he can do to help. But Michael does.


	10. Lie to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the scene that inspired the fic! Enjoy

The only thing Sam can think to suggest to Michael is research, but he latches on enthusiastically to the idea, open and willing to try anything. Sam is surprised if he’s being honest, but the next day he gathers up and hands over all of the materials he and Cas used to help them construct the spell, recovering even the books from Castiel’s unused-for-months-now room that he’s not supposed to know were stolen. He sets Michael up at a back table in the library, and the man puts down roots as if he’s really been planted.

 

Castiel is aware of what’s going on but has told both Michael and Sam that he can’t be involved, can’t get his hopes up just to have them crushed again. Naomi has said Dean’s soul was righteous, that it was destined for Heaven, and that it isn’t there. Which means the only remaining possibility, is inside Dean himself. And after all, wouldn’t Michael  _ know  _ already, if there were something of Dean’s soul left? What could books and old relics possibly tell them that firsthand experience from literally the inside of Dean’s head wouldn’t? Castiel has no patience for fantasies anymore, and wishing just brings pain. Instead, he spends an increasing amount of time alone, searching the internet on Sam’s laptop for things like “human hobbies.” He thinks he might like to knit. Sam mostly continues to orbit around both of them, the way he had been prior to their hunt.

 

But while Castiel steers clear of the research, he continues to stop in and remind Michael to eat, drink, pee, and sleep. The man is wholly terrible at caring for himself as a human, even worse than Castiel had been on his first go-round. Castiel sometimes wonders if he babies Michael too much, if he should be fostering more independence. How long can he keep this up? How long will Michael let him? While he and Sam are and always will be family, that isn’t necessarily the case for Michael. Someday, he may want to leave, will probably want to leave, to go and live his own life. Maybe he will get a human job and settle down with some nice, generic, human woman. Or a man. Maybe he’ll take up hunting and live on the road. Maybe he’ll surprise them all and do something completely unexpected. Whatever the case, Castiel knows that his place in Michael’s life is a temporary thing. He’s a placeholder, a stepping stone, a tool to be used to become something better. He is something to outgrow, and that’s just the way it is. He decides not to dwell on it too much, and to continue to take care of Michael while he’s here. 

 

The three of them sink into this new normal for a couple of weeks. Just as Castiel feared, no new information comes to light, and Michael does not jump to his feet yelling, “Eureka!” He simply continues his patient reading and scribbling of notes in foreign languages on pieces of scrap paper. He gives no sign that he’s on to anything, or that there’s any kind of hope for something to be on to. So Castiel is surprised when Michael appears in the doorway to Dean’s (his) room, clutching his notes and looking completely out of place in his nervousness.

 

“I have something,” he says, matter-of-factly. Castiel’s head snaps up, and his face must betray him because Michael holds up a hand in caution. “I apologize- I should have been clearer,” he says, “What I’ve found will not help Dean.” Castiel immediately loses interest and returns to staring at the computer screen in front of him. “But… it could help you. And Sam. And, perhaps the rest of the world.” Michael takes a seat on the chair at Dean’s desk. Castiel sighs, closes the laptop, and turns to face him. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t speak. Michael takes that as his cue and continues. “I am aware of what you lost when the Nephilim… Jack… became human,” he says. 

 

Castiel nods, though he has no idea where this is headed. “Yes… Sam, and Dean, they had hoped that Jack could make a real difference in eliminating the evil of this world for good. Perhaps make it so that they would no longer have to fight.”

 

Michael hesitates and looks down at his papers. “I don’t know if you will like what I’ve found. I don’t know if you will trust me enough to pursue this.” He seems to steel himself and then looks up at Castiel again. “But I have changed, Castiel. You… being here with you, and Sam, and experiencing Dean’s memories, his feelings…” his gaze drops briefly to Castiel’s lips, but he doesn’t elaborate. “These things have changed me. I have been pondering for a while now, on my purpose. I’m no good as a human.”

 

At that, Castiel snorts. “I don’t think that’s an uncommon problem,” he says, “Even if you’re born into the species. Unfortunately, there’s not much any of us can do about that.” 

 

Michael licks his lips, a nervous gesture that gets Castiel’s attention. “Actually, Castiel. There is.”

 

He lays out his papers in a grid on the bed and starts pointing things out. The spell that Castiel used was derived from the Key of Solomon, a grimoire dating back to the 14th or 15th centuries. Powered by his grace, it should have functioned as an exorcism of sorts. Castiel still doesn’t understand what went wrong, but apparently, Michael does. It would appear that Castiel failed to take into account some of the lesser-known aspects of the spell. Michael explains, referencing the idea that angels are more and less powerful on certain days of the week and during certain hours. Castiel frowns and shakes his head, “I’ve always thought that was a myth,” he says. “I’ve never had any significant impact on spellcasting related to those things.”

 

Michael nods, “You wouldn’t have. Unless you were casting a specific spell, against a specific angel, powered by your own grace.” Castiel has to concede that he definitely does not have precedent for that. Michael continues, “From what I can gather, you cast your spell on a Saturday, at between ten and eleven PM in the time zone you were in.  According to my research on the Key of Solomon, Saturday itself falls under your-- the angel Castiel’s -- dominion, but that particular hour of the night is bequeathed to the archangel Michael. Casting the spell at that time should have simply increased your power, but casting against me inserted an unknown variable, as well as afforded some protection to me, which may explain why my grace was ejected and yet I survived as a mortal. Casting under the dominion of the Sun, versus the moon or other planets, increased the likelihood of an unknown or extraordinary outcome. I believe that all of these variables explain everything. Not just my survival, but yours, as well as the binding of our graces to each other and to Heaven.” 

 

Here Michael pauses and lets Castiel have a moment to take everything in. Castiel sits back, floored. “Are you saying… this is all some big coincidence? I just  _ happened  _ to cast the spell at that exact time?”

 

Michael shrugs. “However improbable, the evidence is undeniable.” 

 

Castiel takes a breath and blows it out, looking up at Michael with wide eyes. “Okay… and you’re saying… something about this can help us?” 

 

Michael leans forward and moves a sketch of the pentagram with archangel warding that Sam drew for the initial spell. “This is the other piece of the puzzle,” he explains. “The archangel warding is what kept me in this vessel, but separated me from my grace. I believe that by changing some of these symbols and altering the spell slightly, I can recover my grace,” he finishes and observes Castiel, waiting for his reaction.

 

When his words sink in, Castiel shakes his head emphatically. “No,” he says, “I can’t let you do that. Michael, you’ll destabilize Heaven.”

 

Michael shakes his head, “I wouldn’t.”

 

“Naomi said-”

 

“I’d be going back,” he says.

 

Castiel stares. “You’d be… to Heaven? Permanently?” Michael nods. Castiel looks back down at the papers. He clears his throat and then asks, “Is my grace recoverable as well?” Michael looks away.  “Oh,” Castiel says, and swallows heavily.

 

“The spell is confusing, Castiel,” he explains, “But nearest I can tell, your grace is truly bound to Heaven. Yours was given as a willing sacrifice, to save this vessel.” 

 

Castiel nods. “Yes, it was.” 

 

“You cannot take it back. Likewise, there’s some suggestion in the Latin that you may not be able to be angelically healed any longer.”

 

Castiel shrugs at that. “It’s not like there’s a lot of angels standing around wanting to heal me, anyway,” he quips. “But Michael, what will you do? In Heaven?”

 

Michael meets his gaze. “I will help,” he says. “I will use what I’ve learned of humanity and my time down here to do better than my predecessors. Better than my father. Definitely better than Lucifer. I will have to remain there, for the most part, but the angels that are left are good ones. They desire direction, and they want to protect humanity. I feel I can trust them to carry out my will on earth.” He pauses, “and I will have you down here, Castiel. Perhaps my most valuable asset of all.” He reaches out and covers Castiel’s hand with his own. “I think I can do some good, Castiel.” 

 

Castiel glances down at their joined hands and then blinks back tears before looking up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I think you will, too.” 

 

“And you…” Michael pulls back his hand. “You will be able to move forward. Without this ghost following you everywhere you wish to go.” 

 

Castiel manages a half smile. “I think Dean will always follow me,” he says sadly, and then straightens up, clearing his throat. “How do we do this?”

 

Michael gathers his papers as he replies. “Sam showed me where he kept the materials from your spells. There’s plenty for what I need. I thought I’d do it right near the portal, minimize the disruption to Heaven.”

 

“So you can go right up,” Castiel nods, “good idea. I’d want to see you off if that’s alright.”

 

Michael smiles. “I’d welcome that. Thank you, Castiel.” As he gets up to leave, Castiel touches his arm but then hesitates before speaking.

 

“I promised myself that I wouldn’t do this, but it appears that I have very little willpower as a human.” He takes a deep breath. “There’s no…” he pauses to collect himself and then continues, “There really was nothing for Dean, was there?” 

 

Michael shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Castiel,” he says, and does look genuinely remorseful. 

 

Castiel should have known better than to hope.

 

***

 

Michael’s goodbye to Sam is heartfelt but unemotional. Sam has already said his goodbyes to Dean, and although he’s come to tolerate Michael, it’s not like they were ever going to be close. Castiel has them on their way in Baby before sunset. During the drive, they don’t talk much, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Castiel tries not to dwell on the fact that this could be the last time he ever sees Dean’s face, but it’s hard. He’s constantly stealing glances away from the road and trying to memorize Dean’s cheekbones highlighted in the sun’s pink glow, the shape of his mouth curving into a gentle smile, and his beautiful green eyes, bright and alive, even without any sign of Dean behind them. Castiel has to blink tears away more than once. 

 

The sun is down when they reach the playground. Castiel leaves the Impala's headlights on for visibility, and Michael uses a can of paint to spray the containment circle and the adjusted wards. When he’s satisfied, he mixes the ingredients for the spell, sets the bowl aside and turns to Castiel who is sitting on a bench, watching. He sits next to him. 

 

“So this is it,” Castiel says.

 

“For now,” Michael replies. “You have been a good friend to me, Castiel. I will make sure there is a place for you in Heaven when your time comes.”

 

“I’m not sure there’s anything in Heaven for me anymore, Michael,” Castiel replies, scuffing his shoe on the ground. 

 

Michael chuckles softly. “All the same.”  They sit together in silence for a few minutes, and then Michael puts his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I will see you again, my friend,” he says, and Castiel is torn between remaining stoic or throwing himself into the man’s arms while he still can. In the end, he just nods and watches Michael go. He gets up and goes to stand close to the portal so that Michael will be able to see him wave, and he won’t miss a moment of saying a final goodbye to Dean. 

 

Michael’s spell goes off without a hitch, the portal swelling temporarily with bright blue luminescence and engulfing the entire playground. Castiel has to close his eyes against the angelic light, and when he opens them, Michael is standing silhouetted by the Impala's headlights, the shadows of two giant wings stretching across the ground. He’s about to call out to Michael when everything goes to hell.

 

Looking back, Castiel can’t believe that they didn’t see this coming, and yet that is the truth of the matter. When the portal crackles and swirls, ejecting several furious angels, neither Michael nor Castiel realizes what’s happening in time. It’s not until Castiel is laying on the ground, bleeding profusely from a through and through wound to his abdomen, that it occurs to him that of course the angels in Heaven viewed the spell as an attack. And of course they would assume upon seeing him that the rebel angel Castiel was the cause. And now, he was dying. 

 

Castiel blinks a few times in an attempt to focus his blurry vision and make out the shapes fighting to his right. It feels like hours but it can only have been minutes before someone is at his side, and he’s cradled in strong, familiar arms. “Castiel,” Michael says, fingers ghosting over his abdomen, “This wound is mortal.”

 

Castiel reaches down to do the same, and their fingers brush. “Yes,” he agrees, “Aren’t we all?” He smiles tiredly at Michael, reaching up to gently touch his face. “You shouldn’t have come to me,” he whispers, “Heaven can’t wait.”

 

Michael looks off towards where he had been fighting. “I killed all of them. I saw what they did to you and I was angry.” He turns his attention back to Castiel. “And now I’m…”  

 

“Concerned?” Castiel offers. 

 

“I think so.” Michael places his hand over Castiel’s abdomen, closes his eyes and concentrates. He opens them again with a furrowed brow and sadness in his eyes. “But I can’t help… the spell prevents me from healing you. You’ll be dead within moments.”

 

Castiel lays in Michael’s arms and looks at the brightness of the stars in the night sky surrounding his head. It looks a little bit like a halo. The thought makes Castiel smile. He blinks slowly, and every time he closes his eyes now, there is Dean. Dean, smiling and happy. Dean, waiting for him. “I know,” he replies. 

 

Michael shifts a little, so he can look Castiel in the eyes. He hesitates for a moment, but then asks, “Would you like me to lie to you now? Would you like to see Dean?”

 

One slow blink; Dean behind his eyelids. His eyes open, and Michael is still there, looking at him softly. “Yes,” he replies, “Thank you, yes.”  Another blink; another moment with the Dean of his memory. And this time when he opens his eyes, Dean is real, and his hand is on Castiel’s face. Castiel smiles. “Hello, Dean.”

 

Dean’s smile is blinding. “Heya, Cas. Long time, no see. I missed you, buddy.”

 

It’s harder for Castiel to speak now, every word is a struggle to force out, but there are things he needs to say. “I’ve missed you… too,” he whispers, voice cracking. 

 

Dean’s eyes are filling with tears now, but his voice is full of promise and hope, alongside the sadness. He strokes Castiel’s cheek gently.  “It’s gonna be OK, Cas. It won’t hurt much longer, and then you’ll be where I am, OK? We’ll be together.” Castiel smiles again and reaches up to curl his fingers around Dean’s on his face. Dean leans forward and brings their lips together, softly; once, twice. 

 

“I… love you,” Castiel chokes out, through ragged breathing. “So sorry… didn’t say… before.”

 

“Shh,” Dean replies, drawing him close, cupping his face and pressing their foreheads together, tears finally spilling over. “Love you too, Cas. Of course I love you. Have all along.” Dean stays pressed close like that, as Castiel’s eyes go glassy and still, and he takes a last, shuddering breath. 

 

When Michael draws back from Castiel’s body, easing him to the ground, the tears are gone and his face is hard. All traces of Dean have disappeared, and a terrifying energy crackles around him now. He looks up in time to see a few more angels stepping out of the portal, angel blades drawn.

 

“Castiel is dead,” he says in greeting, narrowing his eyes and drawing his own blade. “I feel grief. I wish to do more violence.” He advances on the group, fully ready to do battle, but just before their weapons can clash there is a giant burst of light and a thunderous shockwave that throws them all backward in various directions with a loud boom.

 

When the smoke clears and the angels start to sit back up, Chuck Shurley, alias God, is standing dead center in the middle of the containment circle. 

 

“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” he says, looking down at Michael and giving a little wave. “Hi, Michael. Hello, Dean.” 


	11. Thank Chuck

Michael collapses backward on the ground again, taking a moment to recover and steady his breathing before pushing himself to standing. He looks Chuck up and down, taking in the casual t-shirt and jeans, the converse, and the messy beard before asking hesitantly, “Father? Is that really you?” 

 

Chuck grins. “Guilty,” he replies, shrugging with his hands palms up. Michael approaches him cautiously, scratching his chin in thought.

 

“But you are… my Father? The same one from my universe?”

 

Chuck tilts his head as he answers, looking for all the world like any father humoring his young son’s inane questions. “Don’t think about it too hard,” he suggests, and Michael looks slightly taken aback.  “So,” Chuck continues, looking around at the bodies strewn everywhere. “This wasn’t exactly how I thought this would go. He snaps his fingers, and all of the slain angels begin to stir, sitting and standing up with no worse scars on them than a few grass stains. They look around warily in confusion, most of them still brandishing their angel blades. “Um, hi,” Chuck says loudly, waving a little to draw their attention. “If you all could return to Heaven, Michael will be along shortly.” He glances at Michael. “I mean, probably. Aw, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” The angels look unsure, but no one wants to be the one to question God, so in small groups they wordlessly step back into the portal, disappearing from sight.  Michael watches Castiel’s body for any signs of life, but he remains motionless, eyes still open and locked on the night sky.

 

“Okay!” Chuck says, clapping his hands together. “First thing’s first, I’m guessing you have some questions.” Michael doesn’t answer, just stonily stares him down. “Right. Well, I guess now is as good of a time as any to tell you there was a greater plan at work here.” Chuck runs his hand through his hair and paces around a bit while he speaks.  “I needed someone to run Heaven,” he starts, and Michael’s eyebrows raise. “I mean, I don’t want to run that joint. I never really have. But it’s not like there were any suitable replacements. And then you showed up.” He stops pacing, in favor of sitting down on the bench Castiel had occupied less than an hour ago, spreading his arms across the back, the picture of casual relaxation.

 

“Me?” Michael asks, still not moving from his spot. Chuck nods.

 

“An archangel. Someone with enough power to keep this failing Heaven stabilized on their own. But you wouldn’t have been interested. You never would have stayed in Heaven, never mind being able to lead the angels in protecting this world.” He leans forward with his forearms on his knees now. “Part of that is my fault. I should have been around more for you. I left you to deal with Lucifer on your own, I let your bloodthirst, your hunger for power go unchecked in your world. Honestly, I was ashamed to come back there. And I’m sorry about that.” 

 

“You’re… sorry?” Michael repeats, too surprised and confused to add much else to the conversation.

 

“Yes. So I thought that I’d kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Recruit Heaven a leader and fix your little attitude problem.” Michael looks a bit disgruntled at that, but he doesn’t reply. “I led Castiel to that spell and manipulated events so that it would be cast in the time frame that would allow you to survive. I think you figured out that much. I needed you to become human, to be vulnerable, to learn to trust and depend on someone who could show you what humanity really is.” Hearing this, Michael finally seems to become overwhelmed. He walks over and sits down heavily next to Chuck. “I also led Sam to that hunt, among other things. You three were never really alone.”

 

Michael snorts. “And what of Castiel? Were you with us when he was killed? Struck downplaying his role as a pawn in your little game?” His tone is somewhat careful but not without clear notes of resentment and anger. “This is his thanks for serving you? For making your plan a reality? Struck down at the hands of his own brothers, devastated and alone?”

 

Chuck smiles and holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Whoa there, cowboy. Slow your roll. We’re not talking about Castiel right now. Though I see that he was even more successful than I could have hoped for. You care about him! You weren’t capable of caring about anything before. Although, I suspect some of that is because of Dean.”  He puts his hand over Michael’s and looks at him expectantly, but Michael pulls away like he’s been shocked.

 

“Dean? You mean Dean’s memories,” he says, looking at Chuck skeptically. “Dean is gone. His soul was burned out during the spell that made me human.”

 

“No…” Chuck says, drawing the word out and shaking his head. “Do you really think I’d let that happen?” Michael just stares, so he continues. “Dean is not gone. Dean is the reason Castiel was able to get through to you, Michael.” Michael is still looking at him blankly.

  
“I… no, that’s not possible. I would have known,” he says. “I would have felt him.”

 

“Didn’t you, though?” Chuck prods. “All those times you looked at Castiel and felt something that wasn’t from your own heart? Those moments you spoke to Castiel as Dean? Those times your selfish desires told you to do one thing, but some strong emotion deep inside you lead you to choose another path?” Chuck scoots closer and gently places his hand on Michael's chest. “It didn’t feel the same without your grace as a barrier. But surely now…” Michael’s eyes slip closed, as Chuck’s hand begins to glow on his chest. “Dean’s soul is not gone. Let him out, Michael,” Chuck insists, quietly but firmly. 

 

Green eyes flicker open again, and a few tears slip free. Dean’s face suddenly looks younger, softer somehow. Those green eyes blink and focus on Chuck. “Welcome back, Dean,” Chuck says with a smile. Dean raises his hands, looking at them incredulously as he turns them over, finally moving them to his face and covering it. He sniffles and drops his hands back to his legs, rubbing and flexing them on the denim just because he can. 

 

“Will I have to go back?” Dean clears his throat, looking down and stammering a little. “I- I mean, he’s still in me. And Heaven - but I don’t… I don’t want to go back.” He looks up and holds Chuck’s gaze. “Please.” 

 

Chuck puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “No, Dean. You don’t have to go back. But you do need to make a choice.” Dean nods and waits for further clarification. “You’ve been selfless, Dean. It’s about time you got to choose something that’s only for you. So, I can either set your soul free and send you to Heaven,” Dean is already making a face, and Chuck squeezes his shoulder, “ _ Or _ ,” he emphasizes, “Or, I can separate you and Michael.”

 

“Like he’d have to find another vessel?” Dean asks.

 

“Don’t worry about that,” Chuck replies. “If you want your body and your life back, it’s yours.” 

 

Dean nods. “That. I want that. But wait-” He looks towards Castiel’s body for the first time, and then back at Chuck, eyes pleading, and takes a deep breath. “Not alone. I’m a package deal. Me and him, or I go to Heaven.”

 

“I see you haven’t lost your edge, Dean,” Chuck replies, but he’s smiling. “I sorta figured as much.” Chuck stands and rubs his hands together. He claps his hands once and Dean sees a flash of white light. He has to blink a few times before the world comes back into focus, and when he does, the first thing he realizes is that he feels strangely alone in his head. That strangeness is quickly followed by the revelation that he’s still looking at Chuck, but he’s not alone on the bench. When he looks to his left, at the space where Chuck had been sitting before, he almost passes out. He’s looking at himself, and his self is looking back. 

 

“Dean?” says his clone, and that quickly, Dean can see it. Not just the voice, but the harsher features, the darker glint in his eyes, the stiff way he holds his shoulders. This is Michael. Dean nods and looks back at Chuck.

 

“You couldn’t just do this before?”

 

Chuck shrugs unapologetically. “Wouldn’t have done any good then,” he says. “This is just the crunchy outer shell. He needed you. And anyway, you can’t rush art. I’ve been working on this baby for months. Some of my best stuff,” he beams, looking Michael up and down, while Michael appears to be taking inventory of his own skin. 

 

Dean pushes to his feet, finally, shaking out his legs and testing what it feels like to be in control of his entire body again. “Right. Well, this has been really weird and all, but what about Cas?” 

 

Chuck motions for him to follow, and they move in unison to Castiel’s side. Dean kneels next to him, taking Castiel’s left hand in his own. He can’t bring himself to look at his face.”What are you waiting for?” Chuck asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Wake him up.” 

 

“Um…” Dean raises his eyebrows, and looks at Chuck, totally lost. “I’m.. just me right? I’m not an angel or anything…?”

 

Chuck rocks back and forth on his heels. “One-time gift,” he says with a smile, and looks sideways at Michael, “I’m really a hopeless romantic at heart. I know it’s cheesy but how can I resist? Especially with these two.” Michael just stares back with his head cocked and eyes narrowed, confused and slightly suspicious. Chuck is oblivious as he turns his attention back to the men on the ground and asks a little too gleefully, “How do all great fairy tales end, Dean?”

 

Dean’s eyes go wide and he raises his hand, pointing his index finger at Chuck. “First of all, I resent that implication, and I want to go on record as saying that absolutely nothing about this past year has been a fairy tale. Except maybe one of the creepy original ones, with the torture and murder and stuff.” Chuck raises his eyebrows. “Right, okay.” Dean takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes, leaning over Castiel, bending down and lightly brushing their lips together. He pulls back and opens his eyes, but for a moment nothing happens and Dean feels incredibly stupid. He’s about one second from considering taking a run at God himself for turning this into a joke when Castiel’s eyes blink closed, and then slowly open again. 

 

“Cas?!” Dean leans forward again so he can look into his eyes. “Cas,” he breathes, as Castiel looks back, his pink tongue darting out slightly to wet his lips. He coughs a little and tries to sit up. Dean shifts even closer, sliding an arm under Castiel’s shoulders so that he’s holding him up between his own legs. 

 

Castiel hasn’t taken his eyes off of Dean. “This can’t be Heaven,” he whispers, his hand coming up to touch Dean’s cheek. “My back is too sore.” Dean’s eyes are full of tears but his laugh is full of relief. “Is it really you?” Castiel murmurs, still brushing his fingers over Dean’s cheek, his jaw, his ear, his neck. “It’s not a lie?”

 

Dean squeezes Castiel’s hand and shakes his head, smiling even as a few tears spill down his face. Castiel wipes away the ones he can reach, and tugs the collar of Dean’s shirt, encouraging him down. “Show me that you’re real, please Dean,” he pleads just before their lips meet gently, and Castiel sighs against them, still in blissful disbelief. 

 

To Dean’s unbelievable annoyance, Chuck chooses right then to clear his throat, and Castiel pulls back to look in the direction of the noise. “Oh,” he says, taking them in, and focusing on Chuck. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but it would appear that I owe you a debt of thanks.” He stares at Chuck for a moment and then turns back to Dean. “Now go away,” he orders them, pulling Dean back in for another kiss, and then stopping abruptly, pulling back slightly in surprise to say, “There are two of you,” as if he had just noticed. He looks at Michael. “How?” There’s a beat of silence, and then Castiel shrugs, “Never mind. I really don’t care,” he finishes, threading his fingers into Dean’s hair and diving back into him. 

 

Chuck turns to look at Michael and shrugs. “I think that’s our cue,” he says. “Want an escort home?” Michael nods and turns away to follow Chuck towards the portal, but he can’t help glancing back over his shoulder. 

 

“I’m glad you’re alive, Castiel,” he says softly, before turning away again.

 

Still on the ground, Castiel put his hand on Dean’s chest and pushes him back gently. “Wait, just a moment. There’s something I need to- Michael!” He calls after the angel walking away from them, who stops and turns around. Castiel pushes himself up off of the ground and strides quickly over, throwing his arms around Michael’s shoulders and squeezing hard. Michael appears frozen at first, but he soon melts and lets his arms come up around Castiel’s middle, hugging him affectionately back. “Thank you,” Castiel murmurs. “And good luck.”

 

Michael smiles as he pulls away. “And to you, my friend. Until we meet again.” He nods at Dean and then walks away to where Chuck is waiting inside the sandbox. Castiel feels Dean’s hand slip into his as they watch the two of them disappear into the portal. When they’re gone, Castiel and Dean’s heads both turn, unconsciously seeking each other’s reassurance. 

 

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice weary. “Can we go home now?”

 

Castiel squeezes his hand in response, leaning into him a little more, and they start back towards the Impala. “I thought you'd never ask.”

 

“One thing though,” Dean says as they walk, and there’s a smile in his voice. “You’re still in love with me and not that joker, right?” 

  
Castiel shoves him lightly, and they separate around the car. “Dean. You are infuriating,” he says. Dean laughs, a sweet, beautiful sound that makes Castiel’s chest feel a little tight with happiness. Their eyes meet over the hood of Baby. “I’ve never not loved you,” Castiel says, and Dean’s smile has never been so bright. “Take me home, assbutt.” 


	12. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Enjoy the happy ending.  
> I will probably post some pictures as well as the circle with Sam's warding, based on the real Key of Solomon soon.  
> Thank you for reading. :)

Their ride back to the bunker feels to Castiel like moving through a dream, an illusion not relieved in part by the strange paradox of the sun starting to come up. As the pinkish light falls across Dean’s face again, Castiel can’t help but feel like this has to be a sign, one more new beginning. They’ve had more than their share, unquestionably, and yet, as Dean looks up beaming from where he’s been petting Baby’s steering wheel and cooing over how much he missed her to reach across the seats and take Castiel’s hand, this one feels different. All Castiel can do is smile back, and move closer. They drive on, Dean humming quietly to his favorite songs as if nothing has even happened, and Castiel can’t bring himself to interrupt.

 

Eventually, though, he leans forward and turns the dial of the radio down to a background hum and shifts in his seat to face Dean. “I’m sorry,” he says bluntly and doesn’t avert his eyes when Dean looks at him like he’s crazy. “I should have believed in you more. I shouldn’t have assumed you were gone.” He pauses, looks down. “Not to mention, it was my spell that got you into this mess in the first place. I had no business…” 

 

He shakes his head and can’t meet Dean’s eyes, but Dean just huffs a quiet laugh. “Um, not to rain on your little pity party pal, but no it wasn’t.” Castiel’s head shoots up then, and Dean is still smiling but doesn’t look like he’s making a joke. 

 

“What on earth do you mean?” Castiel’s eyes narrow, and his head tilts, and even in the middle of this weird conversation, he feels like he can actually see Dean’s heart swell at the familiar action. Dean squeezes his hand. 

 

“Chuck,” Dean replies simply, and Castiel just looks at him, waiting for more. Dean shrugs. “A lot of this,” he gestures at himself, and at the air, and possibly Heavenward, “apparently was mostly Chuck. He had some kind of plan. Get you to teach Michael how to not be a complete winged dick.” He makes an expression of conciliation and adds, “Worked out alright in the end, I guess.” 

 

Castiel looks horrified. “Dean! Is that what he told you? That’s… absolutely atrocious, Dean, we have to go back. Turn around, I need to-” Castiel is ranting, and Dean cuts him off by swiftly guiding Baby to the side of the road and throwing the car in park. He leans across the seat and slides his right hand behind Castiel’s head, gripping his hair and slamming their lips together. For a moment, Castiel makes noises of protest against his lips, and then he gives up, climbing into Dean’s lap with a knee on each side of his legs and honking the horn extremely loudly three times in the process. 

 

After a minute or two he pulls back, panting and flushed. “That was not fair, Dean,” he complains without malice, running the tips of his fingers down Dean’s neck and under his shirt to brush over his collarbone. Dean is smirking up at him and Castiel can’t resist leaning in again to kiss him gently. “Though it was nice,” he whispers into the space between them, foreheads pressed together. 

 

Dean’s eyes are heavy-lidded and his voice is low when he replies, skimming his hands up Castiel’s back, “There’s so much more I want to show you, sunshine,” he murmurs. “Forget about Chuck. There’s nothing we can do now but move forward. And I’m done wasting time. I think you are too,” he adds, letting his fingers drop down and brush over the front of Castiel’s jeans and feeling the hardness there.

 

Castiel squirms a little and slides off of Dean’s lap, back into his own seat. “I’m not having sex in this car, Dean,” he says firmly, and then amends, “Not that I don’t want to have sex with you, but I’m honestly still not very good at controlling sudden and unwanted human emotions.” Dean looks confused, so Castiel clarifies. “I fear that if our first time together is in here, I’ll never be able to ride in her again without experiencing an inappropriately timed erection. And we ride in this car a lot,” he finishes, looking over at Dean meaningfully, who is silent for a beat and then dissolves into laughter. 

 

He laughs long and hard enough that Castiel starts to be concerned, but Dean finally composes himself and wipes tears from his eyes. “That’s a beautiful thought, Cas,” he says with a wide smile, shifting the car back into gear and continuing on towards home. 

 

***

 

Dean looks a bit overwhelmed as they park Baby and head down into the bunker. He’s running his hands along the cars in the garage, the walls in the hallway, everything he can touch. Castiel stops him before they reach the library, which is his best guess as to where Sam will be. “Is there anything I can do?” He moves in close and takes Dean’s hands in his, holding them tight.    
  


Dean shakes his head no. “I’m just…” He sighs. “It’s hard to believe that I’m really free,” he says, ducking his head. Castiel brings Dean’s hands up to his lips and kisses his knuckles gently, but keeps listening. “I feel like myself,” Dean continues, “I can move my arms, my legs, my eyelids. I can hear myself speaking with my own mouth, and I know I”m alone in my head. But I just…” He trails off, pulling his bottom lip through his teeth.

 

“Let’s spend some time with Sam,” Castiel suggests, “He’s always been good at grounding you.”

 

Dean nods his agreement but doesn’t move. After a beat he admits, “I’ve never been nervous to see Sam before…”

 

“Sam doesn’t blame you for any of this, Dean,” Castiel interjects quickly. “He’s going to be beyond thrilled to have his brother back.” His tone brooking no argument, Castiel pulls on Dean’s hand and leads him towards the library. As suspected, Sam is there, bent over a heavy text. 

 

“Sam,” Castiel says, announcing their presence, and the man jumps a little. When he looks up, Castiel watches the range of emotions fly over his face. Confusion, suspicion, disbelief, doubt, and finally, unrestrained hope and relief. 

 

He stands. “Dean?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean replies, and just like that, Sam is rocketing across the room and pulling Dean into his arms, squeezing hard, and Dean is right with him, closing his eyes and hugging back just as tight, all of his nerves bleeding away, and big-brother mode kicking back in like second nature. “Hey, hey, it’s all good now Sammy. I’m OK.” 

 

Sam pulls back after a while, but his hands remain on Dean’s shoulders, and he’s looking back and forth between Castiel and Dean. “Is someone going to explain?” 

 

Dean moves past Sam to take a seat at the table, clapping him on the shoulder as he goes. “Definitely, Sammy. Over beer and burgers, though, I’m starving,” he adds, winking at Castiel, who blushes, and Sam all but squeals.  “And pie!”

 

***

 

Several hours and the better part of three six packs, two apple pies and a bunch of fast food split between the three of them later, Sam excuses himself to his room. He leans down to hug Dean again before he goes, who pretends to hate it and mumbles about chick-flick moments, but whose smile never leaves his face. After he goes, Dean looks at the clock on the kitchen wall. “It’s like four in the afternoon, why’s he going to his room?” 

 

From his place next to Dean on the bench seat, Castiel raises his eyebrows and drums his fingers on Dean’s hand, which has been resting on Castiel’s thigh pretty much since they sat down. “Might have something to do with this,” he says smiling, leaning in to ghost his lips over the shell of Dean’s ear, and Dean’s cheeks turn a little pink. 

 

“Cas,” he breathes, turning his head so that their lips slide together, and the subsequent push-pull shifts from sweet to hot more quickly than Dean anticipated. Dean pulls away first, standing up and stretching his hand out in offering to Castiel, who takes it and is pulled to his feet. Their eyes stay locked on each other until Dean turns to drag Cas down the hallway and into his room, closing the door and slamming Castiel up against it. “It was torture, Cas,” he says, between hard kisses pressed to Cas’ mouth, hands gripping both sides of his jaw. “Being that close to you, finally knowing for sure that you felt the same, not being able to do anything about it, not being able to tell you...” His hands drop down to Castiel’s hips, pulling him flush against his own and then pinning him tight to the door. He pauses for a moment, leaning back just far enough so their eyes can meet. Castiel’s gaze is soft and lust-filled, lids heavy, but it clears a little at the expression on Dean’s face. “Love you,” Dean says, plain and easy like he’s said it a thousand times. “I love you.” 

 

Castiel smiles widely then, and surges forward, shoving his hands up under Dean’s shirts, forcing them up and over his head. He tosses them to the floor and puts his hands on Dean’s chest, pushing him across the room until he has no choice but to fall back onto the bed. Castiel pulls off his own shirt and drops it, climbing up and over Dean on all fours. Dean’s arms are warm and soft as they come up around him, hands sliding across his skin, down his back and dipping under the band of his jeans, Dean’s mouth sucking a kiss into the skin over his collarbone. In return, Castiel pushes Dean flat and presses kisses to his stubble, covering all of his jaw and down his neck, and then licks a line with the flat of his tongue back up to his ear, biting softly. He tucks his nose just behind Dean’s ear and inhales, savoring the moment, the smell, the realization that this is truly Dean, and he’s not going anywhere. Dean loves him. Dean is here, alive, real, salty and musky and perfectly human. 

 

His tears are dampening Dean’s neck before he even realizes they’re falling, and he sits up, resting back on his heels with Dean’s hips still between his legs. Castiel covers his face with both hands. “I’m sorry,” he whimpers, ashamed at even the way his voice sounds to his own ears, and feeling more pathetic by the moment, but he needn’t have worried. Dean sits up long enough to wrap his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and pull him back down, shushing him gently and caressing his hair, his back. Dean shifts them so that they’re both on their sides with legs intertwined. He wipes Castiel’s tears away with his thumbs and then guides Castiel’s head down into the crook of his neck. Castiel’s floodgates really open then, sobs wracking his body and he clings to Dean as tightly as he’s able. Dean just rocks him through it, kissing the top of his head, caressing his back, murmuring soothing words in his ear, and when the violent sobs finally subside, he’s still there, offering tissues and encouraging Castiel to blow into them, like he’s five years old.

 

Castiel sniffles a little more, but honestly, he feels relieved, like a weight has lifted. “Thank you,” he sighs into Dean’s ear, and Dean’s arms squeeze a little tighter. “I’m sorry,” he starts.

 

“Don’t,” Dean replies softly, his hand coming up to cup the back of Castiel’s neck. “Nothing to be sorry for.” 

 

Castiel pulls back a little and wipes the last of his tears from his face. “I really ruined our moment,” he says self-consciously, but Dean shakes his head no, and intertwines their fingers, his right with Castiel’s left.

 

“Do you still want to stop?” His voice is gentle, but Castiel knows him well enough after all these years to pick up on the stirring undertones. Dean’s hand brushes the back of his upper thigh, a sensitive spot just below where the swell of his bottom meets his leg, and goosebumps spring up all over his arms. Castiel shakes his head and leans back in, capturing Dean’s mouth with his own. His hand releases Dean’s and comes up to frame Dean’s cheek, and they pull apart, come back together, pull apart, back together several times before Castiel takes it upon himself to open his mouth and seek out Dean’s tongue with his own. Their tongues slide together, kisses becoming hot and sloppy, and Dean moans softly, pushing his pelvis closer. Castiel can feel him hardening again against his own hip, and he readjusts their position slightly so that Dean can feel his cock doing the same.

 

“Want you, Cas,” Dean says, “Want to make you feel good, you make me feel so good,” he babbles, and then he’s moving so that he’s above Castiel, his hands fumbling with Cas’ belt buckle, the button on his pants, his zipper. Dean’s more rough than gentle now, urgently pushing his tongue down Castiel’s throat, his hands shoving Castiel’s pants and underwear off, freeing his now hard cock, and all Castiel can do is hold on, one hand on Dean’s ass and the other fisted in his hair, keeping him close. Dean pulls away and stands abruptly, leaving Castiel feeling naked and vulnerable, but he’s only kicking off his shoes, then his socks, then taking his own pants off, jostling them down harshly and stepping out ungracefully, shaking his foot when one leg gets stuck. Castiel just watches, his own pants still stuck around his shins, but he can’t take his eyes off of Dean’s body. He tries his best to commit the picture of him standing there to memory; his entire body, head to toe, from the beautiful freckles peppering his face, to the jut of his flushed and hard cock, to his tanned bowed legs, all bare and all for Castiel. 

 

Dean bends to pull off Castiel’s shoes and socks and finish removing his pants and underwear, and then he grabs Castiel’s ankles, forcing his knees to bend and planting his feet far enough apart that Dean can slide into the space between. Dean leaves wet kisses on the inside of his knees, his thighs, the crease of his groin, and Castiel trembles, torn between the desire to grab Dean and pull him close again, and desperately wanting to stay still and see where Dean is going with this. He compromises by propping himself up on his elbows so that he can watch, but that position is short lived when Dean sucks one of his balls into his mouth and Castiel instantly groans and drops back against the bed, arching his back up. Dean places a grounding hand on his hip and gives the same treatment to the other, and then he’s done teasing. “Cas, look at me,” he says, and as soon as their eyes meet, he sucks Castiel all the way down, holding Castiel’s gaze and letting out a moan of his own. 

 

Castiel feels his peak approaching all too quickly and reacts by grabbing Dean’s hair and pulling him up, none too gently. “Sorry,” he gasps, chest heaving. “That was-” he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He opens them again to find Dean hovering over him, a mischievous smile on his face. “Did I hurt you?” He punctuates the question by running his fingers soothingly over Dean’s scalp, and Dean leans into it, eyes half-closing, reminding Castiel of a cat.

 

“No way,” Dean answers, nudging Castiel’s hand with his head when he stops petting. “That was really hot. Definitely something we’re coming back to in the future,”  he adds with a grin. “I mean, if you want to.” Castiel’s answering smile is mostly at the thought of how many future moments like this that he’s going to have with Dean, that Dean wants to have with him. And just like that, they’re kissing again, slow and deep and hot. Dean reaches over and fumbles in his nightstand, returning with a plastic bottle that Castiel knew was there but has never touched. “Really want you to fuck me, Cas, okay? Please,” he says, as if Castiel could deny him anything. As if he’d ever want to. He nods enthusiastically and reaches for the bottle, but Dean pulls it away. “No,” he says. “Want you to watch.” 

 

Dean rises up on his knees and shuffles forward so that he’s straddling the top of Castiel’s chest. He slicks up his fingers and Castiel sucks in a breath as he watches the first of Dean’s fingers circle and press inside his hole. Dean moans, throws his head back, and Castiel feels like might be able to come just from watching this display. He can’t help it, can’t keep his hands to himself so he runs them up Dean’s abdomen to his firm chest, pinching and rolling Dean’s nipples and Dean almost loses his balance. “Cas,” he moans, and Castiel sees him slip a second, and then way too quickly a third finger inside himself. The hardest decision for Castiel right now is choosing where to look. Dean’s face is blissful, heavenly perfection, and his fingers in his hole are temptation personified, sirens could take lessons from this. Dean, in all his glory, looking down at him, biting his bottom lip and pouring some more lube into his hand. It’s cool and wet and wonderful when Dean slicks up Castiel’s cock.  “Ready, Cas?”

 

Castiel nods, and he can’t keep still any longer. To Dean’s surprise (marked by a little squeak that he’ll deny until his end of days) Castiel pushes up, flipping them over so that Dean is on his back and Castiel is on top. Castiel grabs him under his right thigh, draping it over his arm as leverage to push it up and out, meanwhile lining up his cock to Dean’s hole, sliding home in one smooth movement. Dean moans in delight and his muscles clench around Cas. After a moment he breathes out, “Jesus, Cas. Where the hell did you learn that?” Castiel’s eyes are still closed, and he takes some deep breaths to center himself. Dean around him is tight and hot and absolutely perfect. 

 

When he feels Dean’s hand smoothing down his back and over his ass, he opens his eyes and leans down to kiss Dean gently. “Okay?” He checks in with Dean before moving, and Dean nods, leaning up to kiss him again. Castiel starts to move, and if he thought Dean’s mouth was bliss, this is next level. He shifts the angle a bit and Dean cries out, tightening his grip on Castiel’s ass, so Cas does it again, and again until Dean is shaking below him and an incoherent mess, cock so hard it’s purple and leaking a steady stream against his stomach. Undeniable heat is pooling at the base of Castiel’s spine now, almost to the point of no return, so he reaches in between them and experimentally wraps a hand around Dean’s cock. The noise Dean makes is almost inhuman, and it only takes two or three pumps for him to be coming between them, crying out extremely loud and sounding to Castiel’s ears like he must feel so, so free. Dean’s noises and his muscles tensing and clamping down around Castiel is more than enough to send him over the edge too, spilling hot inside of Dean, his vision completely whiting out for a moment.

 

When he comes back to himself, he’s collapsed on top of Dean, both of them still breathing hard. Castiel rolls to the side, slipping out of Dean with a slick sound that makes Dean grimace and huff a laugh. “Gross,” Dean says. Castiel reaches to the side of the bed and grabs a towel he remembers leaving to lay there an entire lifetime ago. He cleans Dean off, and then himself, then drags the cover-up and over both of them, pulling Dean tightly to his chest in the process.  Dean hums happily. “Damn Cas,” he says, snuggling closer.

 

“Dean,” Castiel says, wanting Dean to look up so he can see his eyes. 

 

“Yea?” Dean props himself up with his arm laid across Castiel’s chest. His eyes are wide and clear, and they remind Castiel of the lushest rainforest canopy, deep in the Amazon. He can see galaxies in them, entire life cycles of worlds, the birth and death of stars, planets, entire worlds, including the only one that has ever meant anything to him. How can he ever explain what he sees to Dean?

 

“Thank you for coming back to me,” he says simply, instead, and Dean smiles, happily, sleepily.

 

“Always come when you call, right?” He’s not fully awake anymore, eyes closing, and Castiel lets him drift off. 

 

There will be time for all of this later.

 

They have time.


End file.
